


Three Prompts AU Collection

by rinsled05



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ancient Egypt, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Chefs, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Alternate Universe - Office, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, F/F, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Humor, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Omega Verse, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Selkies, Time Travel, Tumblr Prompt, mafia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-02-16 09:26:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 58
Words: 59,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13051194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05
Summary: A collection of ficlets for theTumblr AU Mix-It-Up Challenge: "Pick any three AUs and I’ll do one story of at least 500 words integrating ALL OF THEM".Watch Viktor and Yuuri fall in love a thousand times, in a thousand different ways.





	1. Serial Killer / Culinary / Fairy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by possibleplatypus @ tumblr

Two cups of butter with a touch of salt and a dash of pepper. Bit of olive oil. Grated lemon. Three cloves of garlic and a generous handful of chopped parsley. Mix it all up in a big bowl.

Viktor goes through the motions, smiling bright and winsome at the camera as he offers his instructions on autopilot. It’s his annual performance for his American audience: how to season a 12-pound turkey for “that very special Thanksgiving dinner”. Such is the woes of a celebrity chef; he has to cater to his viewers worldwide, which means cooking dishes for universally recognized national holidays.

Really, he’d much prefer the comfort of a _borsht_  with a large dollop of sour cream. The savory crunch of a  _pirozhki_ full of potato and mushroom. The hearty flavor of a steaming  _zharkoe_. Dishes that remind him of warmth and family. Of home.

More importantly, they distract him from the constant, blasted ringing in the back of his mind.

No one else can hear it, that ringing. It’s high and quiet, like Makkachin’s soft whines, or an alarm going off in the far distance. He tried everything. Saw doctors, banged his head against surfaces, screamed until his throat went raw. He was just beginning to wonder if there was no cure to the sound—that annoying, distressing,  _maddening_  sound—until he discovered, to his delight, that it did go away.

Each and every time he stained his hands with blood.

Viktor isn’t sure what it is: the release of pent up rage, the rush of adrenaline, or the deep, deep satisfaction of using his sharpest  _santoku_  blade on another murderous scum that escaped the death penalty. But something about his kills take the ringing away, gives him the relief he solely needs.  

In Entertainment, the media calls him the sexiest chef, the wonder, the darling of the culinary world. In an entirely different section of the news, he’s known as the “vicious vigilante”, or his favorite, a “poor man’s Batman”.

It doesn’t matter to him what he’s called. All he wants is this goddamned ringing to stop.

“That’s a wrap,” the director calls. “Good job, Viktor.”

“Thank you,” Viktor says, flashing white teeth, wiping his hands down on his apron. With brisk strides, he makes a beeline for his private dressing room. Drops onto a chair and whips out his cellphone, eager to search the news for some new bastard mistakenly found innocent for his crimes. It has been a quiet few weeks, so there must have been a kidnapping or a murder or—

“That’s enough!” says a small voice.

Viktor blinks. Rubs his eyes. Blinks again.

Yes, he decides. There is most definitely a tiny little man holding up a palm at him. Hovering above his cellphone screen. With fluttering, faded grey wings.

Fantastic. The visual hallucinations have finally set in.

“I’m as real as you are,” the hallucination says, puffing out his chest and conveniently reading his mind.

Viktor squints at him. Hallucination has silky, raven hair, honey-brown eyes, and a lithe body framed in an artfully shredded navy-blue tunic.

Hallucination is cute.

“You are a hot fantasy the size of my hand,” Viktor says, digging his palms into his eyes. “How exactly are you real?”

The hallucination turns pink and plummets, recovering just before he hits the dressing table. “H-H-Hot fantasy?” he gasps, hands to his mouth, wings beating the air at the speed of a hummingbird.

Now that is just too adorable.

“All right, I’ll bite,” Viktor says. “Who are you and what can I do for you?”

The hallucination draws in a breath. “Quite the opposite, actually. My name is Yuuri and I’m here to help you find your way. Because you’re going down the wrong path. The absolute wrong path.”

Viktor raises an eyebrow; he has seen his fair share of Disney movies. “So you’re… my conscience?”

Yuuri considers this. “Sort of, yes.”

“Okay.” Viktor taps his chin contemplatively. “Why me?”

Yuuri’s eyes widen, wings faltering. “What?”

“There are tons of people doing bad things in this world. Why am I getting a conscience?”

“Oh, um, no reason,” Yuuri squeaks, a delightful flush rising to his cheeks, words tumbling out in a frenzied rush. “I mean, it’s a random assignment. Because I was asked. By someone else. And it was totally random. I didn’t even know who you were when I was asked to give you guidance. Viktor Nikiforov? Who is that, I said. Oh, some talented chef in the human world who’s gone astray, they said. Oh okay, I said—”

As his charming little conscience babbles on, Viktor feels warmth flood through him.

And for a moment, just that briefest of moments, the ringing stops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	2. Ancient Egypt / Coffee Shop / Steampunk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon @ tumblr

It’s a brilliant idea.  

A mobile coffee shop, set in an airship with a giant, colorful helium balloon, flying across mountains and oceans and serving travelers in unknown lands. Have the occasional supply run at the nearest available mart, in the nearest country, and then they’d be off again. Brewing all kinds of wonderful coffee in nature’s cleanest, freshest air, high up in the sky.

The YuuPhi Treat: a wordplay on a Southeast Asian brand of candy that was popular in the 21st century. So says Phichit.

Their shop takes off, literally and figuratively. People wave at them when they sail by, call out orders when they show signs of landing. Yuuri’s very own Clouds in the Sky frappucino with a glob of whipped cream, marshmallows, and pale blue dye is an impending heart attack and an even bigger hit with the pre-teen adolescents, seeking the perfect sugar-caffeine rush.

Yuuri leans over the railing, peering down at the waters, gleaming and tranquil. “What’s our next stop?”

“We’re over the Mediterranean Sea,” Phichit yells, tugging his goggles up. (Infrared, he bragged once. And conveniently hacks into any system he directs his gaze on.) “I’m thinking Cairo next!”

“Egypt?” Yuuri grins. “Cool.”

“Oh sure, play it cool,” Phichit says with a snigger. “I know you’re dying to check out Viktor’s archaeological dig site.”

“No,” Yuuri huffs, the one word drawn out to linger indignantly in the air between them. “ _You’re_  dying to see Chris.”

“Guilty as charged,” Phichit says cheerily.

Yuuri turns back to the sea and inhales the salty air, long and deep. Viktor Nikiforov, historian and celebrity archaeologist, just as the field hit its heyday at the start of the 40th century. With the world in constant flux and technology at such great advancements, the past is now more crucial than ever to find, store, and preserve.

“I wouldn’t mind stopping by the dig site, though,” Yuuri says casually.

Phichit laughs. “Aye, aye, captain.”

 

* * *

 

“The YuuPhi Treat,” Viktor says, resting an arm on the railing. “I’ve heard so much about you two.”

Blue. His eyes are so. Blue. Blue as the ocean and sky. Blue as the food coloring spilling all over the portable table.

And he’s smiling. Always smiling. Bright and silver and beautiful. Ten, no, a hundred times more beautiful than he is on any holographic video, on any of Yuuri’s precious posters carefully hidden and tucked away in a corner of the airship.

Yuuri is vaguely aware that he’s staring. Shaking his head, he grabs a rag and swipes it across the table. Fumbles for another bottle of food dye.

“Christophe raves about your coffee,” Viktor continues, seemingly oblivious to Yuuri’s mild panic episode. His perfect pink lips curl at the corners. “Of course, he might be a little biased.”

“Y-Yes, he and Phichit are very close,” Yuuri says, breathing a sigh of relief when he finally gets the stupid coloring in the cup. God, the one time he needs to make a flawless Clouds in the Sky, and his hands are shaking like he’s got the chills.

Viktor hums. Leans in, as though he’s sharing a secret. “So are all baristas as cute as you?”

Yuuri drops the cup. He’s dressed modestly in his earth-toned outfit of a shirt, vest, and pants –  simple and oh-so-plain. Nothing at all like Viktor in his long, black military coat, decorated with gold buttons and dark belts around the collar and cuffs. (Anyone else would be melting in the sweltering Egyptian heat, but not Viktor. Not Viktor Nikiforov.)

“I… I don’t know,” Yuuri says, suddenly, painfully, conscious of the glasses on the bridge of his nose, the nerdy, gear-covered platoon style cap on his head, the small flight goggles hanging around his neck. “I think they’re cuter? Phichit’s—”

“Not my type,” Viktor says.

“Oh,” Yuuri says.

They gaze into each other’s eyes for a second—a long, drawn-out second—before Yuuri pulls away, heat rising to his cheeks. “I’m so sorry about your coffee, let me—“

Viktor’s hand shoots past the railing and snags his wrist.

Yuuri turns back, eyes wide.

“I’m not really here for the coffee,” Viktor says.

“Oh,” Yuuri says again. Then, weakly, without thought, “We also serve tea.”

A pause. Before Viktor’s laugh rings out, bright as bells, and the swell of happiness in Yuuri’s chest is so unbearable that he can hardly breathe.  

“Get a room,” Phichit crows from a distance.

“Get Viktor’s tent,” Christophe amends helpfully.

Yuuri’s newest special is called Molten Love.

And holographic posters now stand at the back of their airship. Of Christophe and Phichit snuggling together in a blanket, sharing cups of YuuPhi Treat coffee. 

Of Viktor Nikiforov, historian and celebrity archaeologist, laughing, nuzzling into Yuuri’s neck, a cup of Molten Love in one hand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	3. Serial Killer / Arranged Marriage / Victorian Era

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon

Another fiancée, another murder.

The rumors spread like a wildfire: Duke Nikiforov’s only son and heir is cursed. An impoverished noble family, handsome and elegant and undeniably cursed. Every eligible daughter who comes to their door, every hand that is promised eventually, inevitably, dies. Of poison, no less, the most silent, deadliest of murders. Arsenic in a soup, strychnine in the fish, cyanide in a glass of wine. There’s no method to the madness, no pattern. The constable is stumped, the police are useless, and the murders just keep happening.

“What are we going to do?  _What are we going to do_?”

Viktor keeps his gaze on his breakfast, prods at his eggs. Right on schedule, her mother is having her regular morning hysterics. His father shakes the newspaper in his hands, flips a page, and ignores her.

“Without a good marriage, we are ruined.  _Ruined._  We will die without a penny to our name. Is that what you want? Is that what you both want?”

“Please eat something, mother,” Viktor says quietly.

“How can I possibly stomach food at a time like this?” his mother gasps, a gloved hand on her temple.

“Sit down, Alexandra,” his father finally sighs.

His mother rears up, chest heaving against her tightly bound corset. “No, no, this is about our family, about our  _son_. How can you sit there, as if – as if—“

The newspaper is flung to the floor. “If you did not _insist_ on your meaningless garden parties—“

His mother’s voice rises to a screech. “Oh, so our lack of fortune falls on me?”

With a sigh, Viktor tosses his napkin on the table and strides out of the dining room, his parents’ quarrel ringing in his ears. Morning after morning, the same tedious fights over the same tedious subject. He needs to get away, leave the estate. Find his own place somewhere far, far away.

Who needs to be a Duke, to be surrounded by servants bowing and simpering and calling him “Your Grace”? To stand around and make awkward chit-chat with the odd nobility in the drawing room, only to adjourn for even more awkward small talk over the same, drab seven-course meal?

In some twisted way, Viktor is thankful to this killer. He isn’t keen on any of the women he was promised to for the rest of his life. He isn’t keen on women, period. Sometimes, he considers telling his parents. Confessing, really. Except he is fairly certain it will be the final blow to his mother’s weak sensibilities.  

“You ought to just kiss a man,” Christophe says, grinning over the edge of a porcelain teacup. “Right in front of them.”

“Find me one, and I will,” Viktor chuckles.

They’re enjoying tea on the lawn of the Giacometti estate, gazing up at the wide, blue sky where swallows fly, open and free. How silly he feels to be envious of birds. How silly he feels to be envious of his best friend, even, lounging on his lush grounds with nary a care about money or marriage.

Christophe’s grin spreads as he sets his cup down. “Is that a promise?”

Viktor arches an eyebrow. “Do you mean to suggest you have a man for me?”

“Well—“

“Dr. Yuuri Katsuki,” the butler announces crisply by the doors.

“Ah, Dr. Katsuki,” Christophe says, rising to his feet, arms spread wide. “Your arrival couldn’t be timelier.”

Viktor looks up as the newcomer greets Christophe with a hug and two kisses to the cheek. He’s not English, judging by the dark hair, the twinkle in his eyes, the expressiveness in his face. A somber grey coat wraps almost lovingly around his lean frame, while the swept-back hair adds an alluring, dashing flair.  

Viktor stands, intrigued.  

“And this, Dr. Katsuki, is my oldest and dearest friend.” Christophe winks at Viktor knowingly, while the handsome stranger turns his smile on him. “The Lord Viktor Nikiforov, son of His Grace, The Duke of Glastonbury, Evgeni Nikiforov.”

“It is an honor,” Dr. Katsuki says, accepting Viktor’s hand for a firm shake. Black cotton gloves, Viktor notes – a rare fashion choice.

A footman steps out with another lawn chair, while a second seamlessly offers Dr. Katsuki his choice of tea and pastries.

“Dr. Katsuki here is a wonder child,” Christophe says as Dr. Katsuki settles into his seat. “Youngest physician of our time, trained in America, and he accomplished the mammoth task of earning the trust of every stuffy aristocrat in Kent.”

“You flatter me, my Lord,” Dr. Katsuki says, blushing in a most endearing manner.

“It’s not flattery if it is true,” Christophe says. “This poor man has had to pronounce the deaths of all your doomed brides, Nikiforov.”

Viktor chokes on his tea. “I’m sorry,  _what_  have you had to pronounce?”

“I provide services to the Earl of Chatham,” Dr. Katsuki says softly. “As well as the Viscount Hansworth, the Earl of Ashford, and the Lord Egremont.”

“Ah,” says Viktor, recognizing the ill-fated names in an instant. “ _Ah_.”

“I am truly sorry for your losses, my Lord.”

“Oh, don’t be,” Christophe snorts. “He never liked a single one of those women.”

“Giacometti,” Viktor chides. Dr. Katsuki’s gaze sears into his skin.

The rest of the conversation is pleasant. Refreshing. Dr. Katsuki is intelligent and well-read, yet speaks with a tone of excessive humility. They discuss politics, economics, and Dr. Katsuki responds quietly, sensibly, but with a good amount of wit that adds humor to otherwise depressing conversation pieces.

Watching the physician share his thoughts on the fall of grain prices, watching sunlight filter through his dark strands and catch on long—impossibly long—eyelashes, Viktor feels something warm settle inside his chest.  

This is what he wants. This is what he has been searching for. A companion whose presence he genuinely enjoys.

“Forgive my interruption, my Lord,” the butler calls, “But the Dowager would like a word.”

“Ah, my esteemed mother,” Christophe says with a crooked smile. “Do excuse me, gentlemen. I will return shortly.”

Silence falls, and Viktor takes the opportunity to study Dr. Katsuki’s features. Takes in the color in his cheeks and the light in his eyes, the tilt of his head and the curl of his fingers around his teacup. Attractive, good-humored, bright – and making a thousand a year. Oh, he would have been perfect in his mother’s eyes, if not for. Well.

“I must apologize,” Dr. Katsuki says.

Viktor blinks at him. “Whatever for?”

“I, ah, I expressed my interest in meeting you to Lord Giacometti,” Dr. Katsuki says, lashes sweeping down, shy and hesitant. Viktor’s heart skips a beat. “I thought perhaps an invitation to dinner, but not something quite as… private, as this. Surely your time is better spent—”

“I cannot imagine spending my time with anyone else,” Viktor says without pause. Then, clearing his throat lightly, “If I may be so forward.”

Dr. Katsuki’s smile is as sweet as their pastries. “You may.”

 

* * *

 

When Yuuri steps through the office doors, the first thing he sees are his assistant’s sparkling eyes. “So? Did you hook him?”

Yuuri sheds his coat and hangs it on the rack. “He’s not a fish, Mr. Chulanont.”

“Did you, or did you not hook him?”

Yuuri’s lips quirk at the corners. “He invited me for horseback riding tomorrow.”

Phichit makes a sound between a scream and a gasp. “I bet that’s not all you’ll be riding,” he says after he manages to compose himself.

Yuuri laughs. “Phichit!”

“God, finally, after all that pining.” Phichit leans back and tugs out a cigar case from the inside of his jacket, tossing his feet onto the desk. “Now all that’s left is to convince mama and papa Nikiforov, and you and Viktor can live happily ever after.”

“One can only hope,” Yuuri says. “Lord Giacometti reckons her Grace is unlikely to give up on finding another wealthy daughter. Not for a while.”

“Not a problem for us, is it?” Phichit’s teeth sinks into his cigar, sharp as a shark on the prowl, eyes flickering to the medicine kit in the corner of the office. “We’ve got a good system going.”

“Mm, yes.” Yuuri flexes his fingers, feeling the cotton stretch against his skin, the warmth of Viktor’s hand in his.

“A very good system.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	4. Space Opera / Arranged Marriage / Daemons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by enter21 @ tumblr

It is heralded as the wedding of the century: the intergalactic marriage of the sons of the Celestial and human race as a joint agreement of peace, unity, and prosperity between two great cultures.

Months before the ceremony, Yuuri spends an inordinate amount of time asking the big questions. Like  _why me_ , and  _why not a woman_ , and really, most important of all,  _why me?_

He has no complaints about his future husband, because it’s Viktor-freakin’-Nikiforov in all his shiny, silver glory, but who is he to represent the human race, to wed the most beautiful, charming, talented being in the universe? Viktor sings! And dances! On the waters of Mars and on Saturn’s rings, graceful as a swan and lighter than air! But him? He’s just Yuuri. Plain old Yuuri Katsuki. The four-eyes who works the boring desk job, the tech guy who ‘fixes shit’ in some second-rate company. The bumbling idiot who just happened to stumble into some top-secret intergalactic meeting behind a secret door in the third cubicle of the men’s bathroom.

When Yuuri poses his questions, his parents are more concerned about catering for the wedding. (“Do Celestials eat pork?” his mother asks, wringing her hands together.) Mari and Minako badger him instead about finding a Celestial husband at the wedding. (“He’s got to have cousins or something, right?” Minako says.) Phichit spends most of the past few months making up lewd speculations about the Celestial anatomy. (“I bet it sparkles when it—“ “ _Phichit_!”)

 _It’s not so bad_ , Vicchan says, pawing at Yuuri with a soft whine.  _Don’t feel so bad._

“You’re the only one who cares,” Yuuri weeps, curling round his fuzzy daemon.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri doesn’t meet Viktor till a week before the wedding.

“Oh!” The Celestial’s silver skin glows luminescent in the moonlight, his mouth forming a perfect heart. “You are adorable!”

Yuuri sighs and looks down at Vicchan, who tilts his head to one side. Of course; everyone adores his poodle-shaped daemon.

“No, no,” Viktor says, grabbing Yuuri’s face between his hands. “You.  _You_  are adorable.” He smiles, gold freckles lighting up like constellations across the bridge of his nose. “Not that I have anything against your daemon.”

Right on cue, a second poodle-shaped daemon bounds past Viktor and tackles Yuuri to the floor, as bright and enthusiastic as its original counterpart.

“I didn’t know Celestials had daemons,” Yuuri laughs, as the animal slathers his cheeks with a wet tongue.

“I call him Makkachin,” Viktor says.

“I call mine Vi—“ Yuuri pauses, mouth open. Then, plunging on, cheeks turning a shade of scarlet red, “Vicchan.”

“You named a part of yourself after me?” Viktor gasps while Vicchan sniffs cautiously at his offered hand.

“No! Yes!” Yuuri drops his head in his hands. “… maybe.”

“It’s fate,” Viktor sighs happily. “Fate brought us together.”

“Through the men’s bathroom,” Yuuri mutters under his breath.

So all’s well that ends well.

Or so it would seem, until the rebel forces vehemently against the alliance decide to show up on the day of the wedding.

There’s lots of shouting, cursing, and waving of pitch forks. Yuuri wonders about the Celestial priest’s interrupted sermon about Celestials being a species that is advanced beyond human comprehension. (Even the priest of the human race looked vaguely miffed.)

“Liberty, or death!” screams the gold-skinned Celestial leader, looking no older than fifteen.

“You’re supposed to be grounded,” yells an older Celestial in the crowd, his grisly features swollen and red.

“I’m rebelling against your stupid rules, Yakov,” the young Celestial snaps.

“Nikolai tasked me with caring for you while he’s—“

“Blah blah blah blah blah!”

“ _Yuri Mikhailovich Plisetsky_ —“

At the side of the altar, best man Phichit is bent over double, shaking with something that looks suspiciously like laughter. Vicchan and Makkachin are on the floor, nudging and tumbling about in play.

“Um,” Yuuri says while the rest of the rebel forces glance uncertainly at each other. He’s hyperaware of the way Viktor catches his hand in a tight grip, of the way Viktor steps in front of him when the rebels reveal themselves, of the way Viktor’s back looks tall and comforting and safe. “Is the wedding still on? Because my mother fried a lot of pork…”

Viktor’s eyes gleam. “Did you say pork?”

 

* * *

  

It turns out Celestials really like  _katsudon_.

If anything, Yuuri thinks, watching Viktor and the angry Celestial rebel leader cram their faces with his mother’s cooking, his mother is Earth’s true ambassador. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	5. Serial Killer / Fairy / Space Opera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by tbiris @ tumblr

“I vote Yuuri Katsuki.”

All heads turn to Jean-Jacques, who jabs a forefinger at the profile picture in front of him. “He’s got the face of a killer!”

Viktor sighs and kneads his forehead. He’s starting to understand the lines on Yakov’s temples. “We’re no longer discussing our list of suspects, Captain Leroy. What we are considering now are candidates for the battle squadron on Orbit 9.”

“Have you seen the way he looks at people? That dirty little squint?”

Politely, Emil raises his hand. “I think that’s because he lost his glasses in a duel and never got around to replacing them. Besides that, I’d like to cast a vote for him. His use of a staff in battle is unparalleled.”

“He’s not bad at hand-to-hand combat, either,” Mila adds.

“I’m with Emil and Mila,” says Sara. “He doesn’t look like the sort, but Katsuki showed exceptional nerve for our laser tag battles in zero gravity.”

“If Sara thinks he’s good enough, then he’s good enough for me,” Michele says, crossing his arms.

“Count me in, too, for his outstanding maneuvers in our space simulators,” Christophe says, a hand resting on one cheek, lips curving sensuously. “Plus two more for his ass.”

“That’s five votes from our simulation and combat instructors,” Viktor says, ignoring Christophe’s lazy drawl of  _seven, Commander, seven_.

It isn’t easy being Commander of Earth’s finest International Fleet. Leading the brightest and most talented often means a great deal of questioning, doubt, and pushback against his decisions, his leadership. Lord knows the amount of trouble he gave his old mentor, Yakov, when he was being groomed for the role. There’s always a lack of focus, a sense of boredom. The feeling that there has to be something beyond the battle stations where he spent his childhood strapped into machines, engaged in simulated space combat.

Humanity has been locked in a bitter war with the Quim for twenty years. Twenty long years fighting an alien race in the dark, bleak vacuum called space. 

Viktor glances down at the smiling picture of Yuuri.

Yuuri Katsuki joined the fleet at a fairly late age. A second-born from the colony in Japan, but whose giftedness was discovered only at the age of 17, hidden behind a wall of sheer, excessive humility. By then, most cadets would have had years of combat training. By then, most cadets would know how to wield a blaster gun, how to move in zero gravity, how to lead a squadron in the simulator. Viktor might have rejected the admission if not for Celestino’s insistence. Viktor chose to trust Celestino’s judgment—a scout with a keen eye for new recruits—and he has never been gladder to acknowledge his own error.

Within the past year, timid little Yuuri quietly, stealthily, shot through the ranks, beating the top scores on the combat simulator by a large margin. There were suspicions of cheating, but when Viktor observed Yuuri’s simulation through a connecting monitor, he recognized the single-minded drive, the ferocity, the sudden, bold moves that rivaled even the most experienced tacticians in the fleet.

(“Well done, cadet,” Viktor says as soon as the black lid of the simulator slides open.

Yuuri’s eyes narrow into tiny slits, focusing on some point on Viktor’s face. His hair is tousled and slightly too long, his cadet uniform one size too large. “Thank you, um… Colonel Giacometti?”

“Commander Nikiforov,” Viktor corrects, ignoring Christophe’s poorly concealed snigger.

Instantly, Yuuri slams into the back of the simulator, flattening against the surface as though he hopes to be absorbed and never seen again. “C-C-Commander!?  _The_  Commander Nikiforov? Why— What—“

“Katsuki can recite every one of your battle exploits by heart,” a fellow cadet says helpfully.

Yuuri splutters a barrage of nonsensical words at the cadet, a delicate shade of pink sweeping over the curve of his cheeks.

Him. Yuuri is actually bashful about meeting  _him_  – the prodigy whose phenomenal successes are simply written off as “meeting expectations”.

Viktor is strangely, inexplicably, charmed.)

Viktor shuffles the papers in front of him. “I myself find Katsuki to be a suitable candidate. Is anyone opposed to his transfer to Orbit 9? Besides Captain Leroy,” he adds when the officer’s arm shoots up with such gusto that the table shakes from the sudden movement.

“I vote we return to the discussion about the simulator murderer,” Jean-Jacques says fiercely.

“Captain—“

“Don’t you find it odd that all the top scorers before Katsuki have mysteriously died of unknown causes in the simulators?” The Captain looks around the table. “Doesn’t anyone? I mean, one minute they’re in combat, the next – bam! They’re dead!”

“What are you suggesting?” Mila says, eyebrows raised. “That Katsuki killed them just to keep his name on the scoreboard? Why would he do that if he has the skills to beat them naturally?”

“Which he does,” Christophe points out. “He beat your score when you were a cadet, Captain Leroy.” The line of Jean-Jacques’s jaw twitches visibly. “The others only came close to doing it. To be fair, they died before they could.”

“If anything, I’m more worried about Katsuki’s safety,” Sara says, frowning. “Given that the killer is gunning for our most gifted students.”

“Yes, but…” Jean-Jacques’s voice grows hushed. “What if that’s what he wants you to think? What if he’s a Quim that killed the real Yuuri Katsuki and took his place?”

“Bloody shapeshifters,” Michele mutters in the silence that follows.

Viktor exhales, eyes closing. It’s a possibility that cannot be discounted, but all he remembers is the soft blush on Yuuri’s face: how the pink rose to his cheeks, slipping along his jaw and down his neck. How pretty he looked, even in a moment of genuine panic.

“I’m disinclined to take your accusations into consideration, Captain Leroy, until you can provide concrete evidence that cadet Katsuki is not who he appears to be.” Under the table, Viktor delivers a kick in Christophe’s direction when the colonel has a sudden coughing fit that sounds suspiciously like  _so hitting that_. “You have until the shuttle sets off for Orbit 9.”

“Yes, sir,” Jean-Jacques says with a sharp salute.

“Now then, getting back to our potential candidates…”

 

* * *

 

Viktor falls onto his bed, face-first into the pillow.

_“I doubt Katsuki is responsible, but you do need to take this murder issue seriously,” Christophe tells him on the way back to their rooms. “The students are getting nervous.”_

A stone-cold killer right in the middle of their base of operations. The painful truth that anyone on the base may be an enemy in disguise, never knowing who he can trust. It’s a thought that fills Viktor with enough dread that he intends to avoid it as much as possible.

Why couldn’t this sort of thing happen while Yakov was in charge?

Sighing, Viktor reaches under his pillow and rolls over, a little doll cradled in his hands. A worry doll from the old days on Earth, Yakov said. Talk to it about your worries and you’ll feel better in the morning, he said.

“This is what it comes to,” Viktor murmurs. The doll’s hair is golden in the lights, its mouth downturned in a grouchy expression. “So tired and alone that I am reduced to telling a doll about my problems.”

“Yeah, well, imagine how I feel, listening to you idiots.”

Viktor’s wide eyes meet the doll’s: emerald beads that glint. Keen and sharp and  _very much alive_.

There’s a rush of adrenaline, seconds before Viktor drops the doll like a hot iron and lunges for the blaster gun on his bedside table.

“Whoa, whoa,” the doll yelps, rising unsteadily to its tiny feet. “Calm the fuck down, will you!”

“I don’t know of any dolls that talk,” Viktor hisses, unlocking the safety catch with an audible, reassuring  _click_.

“Oh, you got me, I’m no doll. Shocker.” The emerald eyes almost appear to roll upwards. “Listen, I’m— _will you put the gun down_.”

“Keep talking and I might consider it,” Viktor says.

“God, you humans,” the doll groans. “So advanced yet so ignorant. It’s not like you’ll believe me if I told you I was a fairy trapped in a doll’s body, and that I lie dormant until someone awakens me with their strongest desires.”

Viktor doesn’t respond, gun still trained between the doll’s eyes.

“Thought so. Okay, look, what if I also told you that you really, really wish you could run away, that someone would lead the fleet for you, that the mystery of the simulator murder will resolve itself somehow?”

Viktor flinches.

“I also see that you’ve got the filthiest, most disgusting thoughts about some nerdy boy in oversized—“

“Enough,” Viktor snaps. “It means nothing to me that you can read my mind.”

The doll makes a little movement that looks like a shrug. “I could tell you who the murderer is.”

Viktor pauses. Straightens a little and lowers his gun, one finger still resting on the trigger. “… and how would I know that you’re telling the truth?”

“Because I’m obligated to grant you three wishes in order to undo this stupid curse.” The doll’s stitched mouth quirks. “All you have to do is say, ‘Yuri, I wish for you to tell me who the murderer is’.”

“Yuri,” Viktor says, incredulous. “Your name is  _Yuri_.”

“I know,” Yuri says, shuddering. “As if being stuck in this shitty form isn’t bad enough, I have to share a name with your pornographic fantasies.”

“Hold on,” says Viktor. “How did you get trapped in the first place?”

“Not important,” Yuri scoffs. “Do you want to use the first wish, or don’t you?”

Viktor breathes, in and out. His life in space has finally cumulated into hallucinations of fairies in talking dolls. Either that, or Yakov is spicing up retirement by playing some elaborate prank and watching his reactions behind a hidden camera.

The doll has folded its arms, foot tapping restlessly on the mattress.

Whichever it is, this is something  _new_ , and novelty always triumphs rationality.

“Three wishes, you said?” Viktor says.

  

* * *

 

Yuuri is topless when he answers the door.

Viktor’s gaze is drawn like a magnet to Yuuri’s smooth skin and muscles, Yuuri’s flush as it spreads right down to his chest. The jut of Yuuri’s hips where the waistband of his pajama bottoms rests – baby blue and covered with fluffy white sheep.

“Commander! Sir!” Yuuri snaps to attention and gives a hasty salute. Wet hair clings to his forehead, and the pads of Viktor’s fingertips itch to brush them aside. “I – I apologize for my state of undress, I just came from the showers—“

“Here,” Viktor says, holding out a pair of glasses.

Yuuri blinks. Squints, rather. “Oh,” he says after a moment. The delight on his face fills Viktor’s chest with warmth. “For me?”

“I took the liberty of looking up your medical records for the prescription.” Viktor smiles as Yuuri carefully slips on the eyewear as though it is a fragile gemstone. “Better?”

“Much,” Yuuri says.

“Excellent,” Viktor croons. He can’t stop staring at the dip of dark eyelashes, the curl of pink bow lips, the darkening blush on soft skin. It would have been far too easy to forget the real reason he’s visiting the cadet after hours, if not for the weight of the blaster rifle strapped to his back. “Captain Babicheva informs me that you’re fairly adept at hand-to-hand combat.”

Yuuri tilts his head questioningly.

“Walk with me,” Viktor says. “I will explain as we go.”

“Oh, um, let me just put on a shirt first…”

“Of course,” Viktor says, disappointed.

“Nice glasses,” says a voice inside Yuuri’s room, bright and cheery. “If you need me to leave, I can go hang out in Leo and Guang Hong’s room—“

“Shut up, Phichit,” Yuuri laughs. Pealing like bells in a distance.

Lunch, thinks Viktor. He’ll start by asking Yuuri to lunch as soon as this mission is accomplished.

They begin walking after the cadet reemerges in a plain T-shirt that reads  _if you believe in telekinesis, raise MY hand._

Adorable.

“What can I help you with, sir?” Yuuri asks.

Viktor tears his eyes off Yuuri, clears his throat. “There’s a matter that needs… handling. And I require someone who’s not an officer. Someone with the skills to fight, the wit and courage to engage in hostile confrontation.”

Yuuri nods, a slow bob of his head. “Why not an officer?”

“Because a cadet is less likely to be an accomplice,” Viktor says. He feels Yuuri’s gaze on his rifle. Sees the revelation on Yuuri’s face as they enter the instructor’s quarters.

“Who are we visiting tonight, sir?” Yuuri asks quietly, his hands clenching and unclenching by his side.

“Captain Jean-Jacques Leroy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	6. Arranged Marriage / Ancient Egypt / Soulmates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by loveprez @ tumblr

Viktor chases Yuuri’s rising flush with his mouth: from his cheeks, his jawline, right to that little hollow between his neck and shoulder. Yuuri sighs, fingers finding silver strands, burying themselves there. Viktor kisses him, over and over, mouth moving lazily, burning a trail of marks down his chest, the curve of muscles along his stomach. He shivers when Viktor looks up, hot breath against his spread thighs. Gazing at him with eyes bright and blue as the cloudless sky, warm as the fires in his royal chambers.  

“What a find,” Viktor whispers, and Yuuri knows he’s reading off the elegant words printed on the inside of his right thigh. Viktor’s first words to him; Yuuri’s first meeting of his soulmate.

(They meet in the Pharaoh’s newly constructed tomb – with Yuuri hiding from the suffocating feel of his betrothed’s palace, with Viktor dropping in with his crew of fellow raiders.

Yuuri is familiar with tomb robbers. Desperate men who break into graves to steal the Pharaoh’s prized possessions, ignoring the curse of the Gods that will befall them for their crimes. But Viktor is nothing at all like the criminals that his father once described; he’s not sweaty and heavily obese, nor is he ugly and dressed in rags. No, oh no – Viktor is far from ugly, judging by the silver sheen of his hair in the flickering fires of the burial chamber, the smoothness of his alabaster complexion. A handsome vision that ought to be carved into mountains and statues for mere mortals to worship.

When Viktor says those fateful words—in a rush of breath, eyes shining, as though he might burst if he keeps them in—Yuuri’s heart trips, and he remembers the way he used to trace the fine lettering with his fingertips, the way he wept over the Pharaoh’s first words, mistaken by the king for tears of joy over their union.

 _Soulmate,_  Yuuri thinks.  _My soulmate_. For the past twenty years, ever since he grasped his alphabets, ever since he could read, he has stared and stared at the same three words. Tried to decipher its meaning, speculate about his future partner. Wondered if he’d ever have a marriage as loving as his parents’. And now, finally,  _finally_ —)

“I’ve been waiting,” Yuuri murmurs, soft and breathless. Fingers drifting down to press against the shadowed line of Viktor’s hip, where  _his_  first words have been written by the stars, carved for eternity into fair skin.

“You have no idea how happy you made me when you said that,” Viktor sighs.

“I think I have some idea,” Yuuri says, eyelids dipping, watching Viktor’s breath catch through a fan of lashes.  

“God, I love you,” Viktor says then, as if he can’t believe his luck, and Yuuri’s chest fills with such tenderness that he can only tug Viktor up for a kiss, unable to find the words adequate enough to convey his heart, his soul.

The Pharaoh’s chosen one, dallying with a peasant, a tomb raider. Yuuri knows the price he must pay if they’re caught; he knows he stands on the precipice, looking down into the face of Osiris.

But in the warmth of Viktor’s embrace—of his soulmate’s heart beating against his—it’s easier, so much easier, to let himself fall.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	7. Mermaid / Soulmate / Celebrity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon @ tumblr

Yuuri is dying.

Water floods through him, up his mouth, his nose, and into his lungs. Slowly, excruciatingly. Squeezing like a noose around his heart as the poor organ thrashes and flails against his ribs, desperate for air. For respite.

No death is worse than drowning.

He would rather take a blade to the heart or a torrent of bullets. Maybe even bleeding out on a war-torn battlefield, cold and trembling and begging for darkness to claim him.

 _Ugh_ , Yuuri thinks, his vision growing blurry, the ravaging waves tossing his body about like a ragdoll.

_I’d better wash up somewhere nice._

 

* * *

  

‘Somewhere nice’ turns out to be the island of Tortuga.

The innkeeper doesn’t bat an eyelid when Yuuri crashes through the door, thoroughly soaked and leaving a trail of water in his path. His mouth might have twitched though, just a little, when Yuuri slams down a waterlogged pouch that spills a heap of gold coins across the counter.

“Best room you’ve got,” Yuuri says.

The innkeeper bites down on a coin, before sliding over a copper key. Nodding his thanks, Yuuri sweeps up the stairs, entirely ignored by the inebriated sailors yelling and shoving at each other by the bar.

If there’s one thing Yuuri likes about pirate ports: they all speak the universal language of gold, no questions asked.

Once in his room, Yuuri peels off his clothes and drops onto the bed, naked and too exhausted to move.

Too exhausted with life.

Grey, grey, grey: the world is grey and dull and filled with passing shadows.

He used to have family. He used to have friends. A sweet girl called Yuuko, a gruff boy called Takeshi. But they were normal; human. Just like he was, until he had a taste of some exotic meat brought in by a fellow fisherman. 

 _Mermaid flesh_ , the man said.  _One bite will turn you immortal_ , he said.

The fisherman died within minutes of consuming the poisoned meat.

But Yuuri, in a twist of fate decided by the Gods, lived.

And as the years went by, his friends found love with each other and grew old. Passed on, while Yuuri stayed very much the same. Watching the lines deepen on their faces, watching them wither, slowly but surely, Yuuri didn’t think he could endure another relationship as fleeting to him as the pink blossoms of spring.  

So he travelled. Far and wide. Visited foreign lands, learned new languages. Kept moving, kept running, and died a good more times than he would’ve liked. 

Other people speak of soulmates. Of how the world explodes with color and light when the red string of destiny connects two halves together.

Yuuri’s certain he doesn’t have one, that he is fated to traverse the span of earth and time on his own.

Sad, bitter, and forever alone.

 

* * *

 

When Yuuri next opens his eyes—waking, always waking—the room is dark and there’s shouting and raucous laughter downstairs. He doesn’t move at first, his limbs heavy and glued to the ratty thing that passes for a mattress.

That’s when he hears it: honeyed vocals drifting in the background, soft and warm as his mother’s lullabies.

Something about that voice galvanizes him into action. Compels him to throw on clothes and leave his room in search for the source, without thought, without pause. Something about that voice beckons for him to come closer, to immerse in its enthralling melody, fully and utterly.

The bar is packed. Half the room is drunk and trading bawdy jokes, the other half is watching someone croon in a corner.

The voice, Yuuri realizes, his eyes falling on the singer.

And oh,  _oh_  – the world shifts then, the greys turning into hues and shades and all manner of colors. So many colors. Blue, red, green, purple, brown – and silver. On utensils, jewels. On the singer’s silky hair that cascades past his shoulders like a waterfall, shimmering in the flickering light of the lamps.

Yuuri’s gaze remains on the singer, shaken, as he slides into an empty high stool at the bar counter. “Who is that?” he asks the bartender, voice low.

“You don’t know ‘im?” the bartender says, thick brows arching. “Where’ve you been, stuck in the 14th century?”

“More or less,” Yuuri mutters.

The bartender shoots him a funny look, but chooses not to comment. “That’s Viktor Nikiforov, the nightingale of Tortuga.” Beneath the full moustache, lips quirk in a lopsided smile. “Got a voice that warms even the heart of Blackbeard himself.”

“So I’ve noticed,” Yuuri says.

Just then, his eyes meet Viktor’s—blue, oh-so-blue—and there’s scarcely a beat before Viktor’s face lights up, glowing warm and beautiful as the rising sun.  

Ah. He knows now, too.

Yuuri draws in a wobbly breath.

After this long, after centuries of traveling alone, he has a soulmate. A man with a visage as lovely as his voice – and who is undoubtedly, despairingly, mortal.

The Gods, after all, have a twisted sense of humor.

 

* * *

  

Yuuri decides to leave. Slip out into the night while Viktor is still performing.

Why suffer the misery of outliving his soulmate, when he can simply suffer without the additional burden of heartache and grief? Better to steal a ship and sail away. Find some other new lands to explore, as though this encounter never occurred.

He makes it as far as the docks before he hears screaming.

Not the hearty screams of a pirate at his mates, or a prostitute warning a penniless man to  _back the fuck off, mister_.

Screams of pain, of an unfortunate soul on his last legs.

Yuuri could turn away. He has always had the choice to mind his own damn business and walk in the other direction.  

But he never does.

Following the tortured sounds, heavy boots pounding on dirt, Yuuri races down to an isolated patch of beach where the waves carried him in earlier in the day. The moon hangs round and full in the night sky, illuminating the odd scene before Yuuri: a circle of men standing near the waters despite the high tide.

“Hey,” Yuuri yells. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The smallest one whirls round – a boy no older than fifteen, his hair shining golden in the moonlight. “None of your beeswax,” he snarls, eyes flashing dangerously.

“I heard screaming,” Yuuri says. He drops a hand to his belt, just a tad dismayed to find that he had left his pistol in the inn. (Well, it’s a good night as any to die.) “And it definitely came from that very spot you and your friends are at.”

The rest of the group turns while the small one takes a step forward, the heel of his boot sinking into the white sand. “Listen, you stupid little—“

“What’s the commotion?”

Yuuri’s heart skips a beat. Only once has he heard that silvery voice, but once is more than enough.

“Viktor,” the boy huffs, arms folding across his chest. “This idiot here is messing up our feeding.”

“Oh,” Viktor breathes, his voice lifting, as though he cannot contain his delight. A hand rests on Yuuri’s shoulder and squeezes, the gentle heat slipping through his clothes. “The pretty one at the bar tonight.”

Yuuri looks up, and he’s struck, instantly, by the shine of Viktor’s eyelashes, the soft pink bow of his mouth, the silver of his hair that shimmers, still, in the ink of night. He almost forgets why he’s there, why he even tried to leave, until he hears the final gurgling moan of a man on the brink of death.

“Stop,” he demands, sounding braver than feels. “Whatever you’re doing to that poor man, you have to stop.”

“I say we kill him,” the boy says, ignoring Yuuri. “He’s a witness, and the last thing we need—“

Viktor holds up a palm, and the boy shuts his mouth with a dark scowl.

“What is your name, dear one?” Viktor asks, his voice caressing, soft as silk.

“Katsuki,” Yuuri says, heat rising to his cheeks. “Yuuri Katsuki.”

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, the drawn-out syllables tumbling and rolling in the air between them. (The boy shudders as though a chill has passed through his body.) Viktor slides a thumb and forefinger on Yuuri’s chin and leans in, close enough for their noses to touch, for Yuuri to see the light in warm, blue eyes. “Tell me, Yuuri…”

“…do you believe in mermaids?”

“Viktor,” the boy snaps as Yuuri’s breath catches in his throat. Behind the boy, the men exchange nervous looks.

Unfazed, Viktor pulls away and ushers Yuuri toward the rolling tide. “You see, there are two kinds of mermaids in this world,” he continues.

Yuuri glances down and sees the way the waters froth and bubble, the way it throws up tattered pieces of bloodied fabric, the way something flashes now and then, wet and sharp and gleaming.

“Ones that swim in the ocean, hungry for human flesh when the moon is full.”

Slowly, Yuuri turns his gaze back to Viktor, who smiles, soft and alluring.

“And ones that walk on land, finding ways to satisfy their brothers and sisters.”

There’s a pause, before the air fills with the boy’s profanities. Swearing at Viktor for exposing them, revealing their secrets to  _a useless, insignificant human_.

Yuuri’s mind spins.

Viktor Nikiforov, the nightingale of Tortuga—his soulmate—is a mermaid.

Could the Gods be any more twisted?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	8. Mermaid / Soulmate / Celebrity, cont'd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An ending ficlet to the original prompt response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by katsudonefucked @ tumblr

_The Somme, 1916_

Explosions ring out. Gunshots. Dirt, sand, and dust flying through air, thick with screams and indescribable terror.

Yuuri races through the battlefield, back hunched, a wounded soldier slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Every so often, he dives forward, narrowly avoiding another blast by the skin of his teeth. Every so often, the soldier moans, signaling that he’s got some fight left in him. 

How did he get into this? 

Oh right, Viktor wanted to visit the kingdom of Great Britain. 

(“Don’t humans have something called a honeymoon?” Viktor asks, shining with more radiance than the gold on his ring finger. 

“But we have eternity to travel the world,” Yuuri starts, only for Viktor to gaze at him with wide eyes full of gloom and wretchedness. It takes seconds for Yuuri to give in.

It takes them barely a week before they’re somehow conscripted into the British army.) 

By some miracle, Yuuri reaches the trenches. He rolls the soldier off, hands him carefully to the men below, before swinging down into the trench. Seconds before an enemy shell hits. Before the world lurches—a shower of dirt and lifeless bodies—and the men cower by the sides of their well-carved grave, eyes wrenched tightly shut. 

Unfazed, Yuuri darts past them and makes a beeline for the dug-out, cut haphazardly into the trench wall.

Viktor looks up when he enters.

“Hello, dear one,” he says, glowing despite the grime on his face.  

Yuuri removes his helmet. “Some honeymoon.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Viktor says. He slips an arm round Yuuri’s waist, nuzzles into dust-filled hair. “I rather prefer this over some luxurious vacation spot. Makes it a little more… thrilling.”

Yuuri laughs, hands curling against Viktor’s neck. “Thrilling as the stench of my unwashed hair?”

“Mm, smells like heaven to me.”

 _Incoming_ , someone shouts, and the dug-out rocks from another well-aimed strike, books and food cans toppling off shelves.

“You know,” Viktor muses. “Some of my sisters enjoy a well-cooked piece of—“

“No,” Yuuri says.

Viktor pouts.

Heart warm, Yuuri presses a kiss to Viktor’s cheek. His love, his soulmate, his eternal companion. The world could burn around them and Yuuri will only ever see Viktor. Ridiculous, dramatic, senseless Viktor, whom he loves with every fiber of his ancient, immortal being. 

“What are you thinking?” Viktor murmurs, fingers tracing the curve of Yuuri’s hip. 

“How much I adore you,” Yuuri says, and it’s worth it to watch Viktor’s eyes turn bright and liquid, his cheeks glow in the dim light of the dug-out. More than, really, to feel Viktor’s mouth on his, soft and warm and bursting with boundless affection.

There’s another shout, frenzied and incoherent, and the dug-out shakes, sand raining down from the manmade ceiling. 

Viktor pulls away, smiling. Knuckles brushing fondly across Yuuri’s cheek. “What do you say to Germany for our next trip, Sergeant Katsuki?”

“Maybe in twenty years, Captain Nikiforov,” Yuuri laughs, his heart full of love for his crazy merman, pressed steady and solid beside him. Strangely, and sweetly, more human than his fellow men and their meaningless, endless wars. 

“When the world’s a little less mad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	9. Cowboy / Ghost / Baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by sammybunny711 @ tumblr

Had Viktor known he would be saddled with  _three_  requests in one, he would never have accepted such an absurd mission. 

It came in the form of a grieving young widow by the name of Mrs. Isabella Leroy, weeping into her white handkerchief embroidered with periwinkle flowers. On her lap sat a sturdy little toddler, unperturbed by her sorrow, grabbing and stuffing the tail ends of her hair into his mouth.  

“I take it you want revenge?” Viktor said, lowering the photograph she had given him.

“I want justice for the murder of my husband,” Isabella said, shaking behind her laced mourning veil. “If that calls for revenge, then so be it.”

“Very well,” Viktor said, leaning back in his seat. “My services will cost—“

“I will also require you to watch my little boy while I search for employment,” Isabella said.

Viktor took a moment to register her words. “I’m a bounty hunter, Mrs. Leroy,” he said. “Not a nanny.”

“Oh, c’mon, it’s just for a couple of days,” said a voice from above.

“My late husband,” Isabella said, dabbing at her eyes while a translucent figure manifested by her side, full of grins and cheekiness despite the circumstances. The bloodied hole in his chest was small but ghastly enough to turn a man’s stomach. “Jean-Jacques.”

“JJ,” the ghost corrected brightly.

Viktor stared.

Isabella’s toddler chewed rather gravely on her hair and dribbled.

 

* * *

 

His quarry was brooding at the bar counter, drink in hand.

Viktor, meanwhile, put on his most menacing expression. Glared at any who dared to comment on the toddler bound to his chest, as though he had every right to bring a baby into a drinking establishment filled with all manner of filth and scum. JJ thought Viktor could be a little friendlier; Viktor couldn’t comprehend why a dead man wanted to tag along on a hunt.

Really, Viktor couldn’t comprehend much of his current mission.

Was the afterlife truly that dull for JJ? Why were Viktor and Isabella the only ones who could see him? Why would Isabella entrust her only son to a stranger whose hands were stained with blood?

“You’d have a better love life if you smiled a little more,” JJ told him.

… could one strangle a ghost to shut the damn thing up?

Viktor stretched out his legs, scuffing the heel of his boots across the wood floor. His quarry had better shift soon; the faster he killed the guy, the sooner he could be rid of JJ and his kid. 

“May I share the table with you?”

Viktor looked up, and his breath caught at the sight. It was a young man with dark lashes, dark eyes, dark hair falling just so across his forehead. Even his clothes were dark: from his hat and leather vest, right down to his tight—impossibly tight—pants, the blue kerchief round his neck the only splash of color on his otherwise somber appearance.

Somber yet enchanting.  

“Absolutely,” Viktor said, straightening, ignoring JJ’s whistle of approval.

The man smiled and settled into a chair, eyes flickering to the toddler on Viktor’s chest. “It’s not often I see a father caring for his child, much less in a saloon.”

“Oh no,” Viktor said hastily, “It’s not mine.”

The man’s fine brows rose an inch, and a pause followed, broken only by the baby’s bubbling noises.

“Smooth,” JJ guffawed.

“He wasn’t kidnapped, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Viktor said, squashing the spark of irritation in his gut, “I’m looking after him for an acquaintance.” Then, as an afterthought, “I love babies.”

“I see,” the man laughed, bright and musical. There was something delightful about the way his face lit up, the way his eyes glowed with mirth.  

Right then, the quarry moved, slipping through the doors of the saloon. 

“I have to go,” Viktor said. He rose carefully to his feet, a hand supporting the toddler lest he slipped through the straps. JJ had swept after the quarry, leaving him thankfully, mercifully, alone with the cute stranger. “But I’d love to see you again, ah…”

“Yuuri,” the man said softly.

Viktor tried rolling out the name on his tongue— _Yuu~~ri_ —his heart dancing a jig when Yuuri’s bow lips curved with pleasure at the attempt. “I’m Viktor.” He tipped his hat with his free hand. “Viktor Nikiforov.”

“Viktor,” the man murmured, long lashes shadowing his cheeks. A shiver ran up Viktor’s spine.

“I have a feeling we’ll meet again very soon.”

 

* * *

 

Viktor had lined the shot perfectly.

There were hunters who enjoyed blazing into the fray, guns a-swinging, but he much preferred the delicate art of sniping. It required precision, patience, and more importantly, it allowed for an easy getaway after the deed was done.  

Even better, his quarry stood right by the open window, unguarded and oblivious.

“Get his head,” JJ said, grinning. “I want to watch the bullet go right through his ugly mug.”

“Hush,” Viktor said, peering through the aiming device, his finger on the trigger.

“Can you believe he shot me for talking too much? What kind of a reason is that to kill a person?”

“JJ,” Viktor hissed, jaw clenching.

“And I had such a brilliant idea for reworking the town’s sewage system— uh oh, we’ve got spit-up!”

On cue, the toddler, shifted to Viktor’s back for easier maneuvering, drooled into the layers of Viktor’s clothes.

Viktor wrenched his eyes shut and counted to ten. He barely reached four when, across the distance, his quarry made the distinct gurgling noises of a man choking on his own blood. Eyes flying open, Viktor watched as the man staggered about, eyes bulging. 

Clawing at the knife in his throat. 

In his final death throes, the quarry stumbled to the window and toppled, head-first, over the ledge. 

It didn’t take long for the screaming to begin. 

“Holy smokes,” said JJ after a startled pause. “That wasn’t you, was it?”

Viktor swallowed. “No, that—”

“Was all me.”

The voice was definitely not JJ’s.

Viktor spun round, seconds before a lithe frame pressed up against his, a hand on his cheek, the corners of a familiar blue kerchief caressing his neck.

“Viktor the sharpshooter,” Yuuri whispered against the shell of his ear. “You’re not as quick as they say you are.”

“I wasn’t aware this was a competition,” Viktor chuckled breathlessly. Something hard pushed on his hip – the sheathe for a knife, he concluded. Not that it stopped him from swallowing, his mouth going dry.

“Not a fair one anyway,” Yuuri said, pulling away, eyes half-lidded and molten-hot. Searing deep into Viktor’s insides. He turned to leave, crooking a smile over his shoulder. “Let’s do this again sometime. Sans baby.”

“I look forward to it,” Viktor managed.

He waited till Yuuri had sauntered out of the empty room—god, those pants—before he slipped to floor, legs giving way.

His name was Yuuri. 

_“Yuuri Katsuki: Wanted assassin.”_

How could Viktor have forgotten?

There were bounties out for Yuuri, large ones that amounted to the price of a mansion in these parts. Rumors circulated through neighboring towns of how Yuuri thrilled in beating others to the kill, how he frightened even the most ruthless hunters into hiding, how he broke the hearts of men and women alike.

One thing was clear to Viktor: Yuuri’s bounty posters did him no justice.

“So,” JJ said, “I’m guessing this means Isabella doesn’t have to pay for the—“

“Full price, JJ,” Viktor said, fingers brushing the curve of his cheek, still tingling from Yuuri’s touch. “Your wife owes me full price.”

On his back, the toddler clapped his chubby hands in agreement. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	10. Omegaverse / Mafia / Ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by suzurei @ tumblr

It’s a funny thing, death. 

After tens of thousands of times—feeling the jolt of a fired pistol, watching the splatter of blood on clothes, walls, and grimy concrete—one would think Viktor was used to it. 

Yet, somehow, it’s different when it’s agonizingly slow, when he can feel the warmth seep away with every touch of his fingers. When it’s someone he loves with all his dirty, blood-stained soul.

“Please, my darling.” Viktor remembers falling to his knees, his hands shaking, tangling, in dark strands, his lips pressing into soft skin over and over. Hating the way it grows colder with each passing second, the way something hot and thick sears through his coat, his vest, his heart. “Please, don’t leave me…”

_I love you._

Yuuri’s last words. Whispered in Viktor’s ear with the last of his strength before he gave in, allowed death to swoop in and claim him. Steal him away from Viktor, like Hades had done with sweet, sweet Persephone. 

Something snapped inside Viktor then. His last shred of humanity, gone with his beloved. Filling instead with the fires of rage and pure, unadulterated  _hatred._  

That night, five speakeasies were gunned down in cold blood.

That night, the Nikiforov family declared war on the Leroy family.

 

* * *

 

Six months later, Otabek interrupts a family meeting to throw in a young upstart, flailing and hissing like a wildcat. 

Viktor doesn’t think much of the boy at first. An orphan skulking about their headquarters, hoping for a fresh new start in a world that has shown him nothing but loneliness and abuse – such stories are a dime a dozen. Not everyone has the fearlessness, the ruthlessness, the natural-born talent for violence and murder. 

Until, that is, he hears the boy’s name.

The room falls silent as Viktor rises slowly from his seat. “What is your name again,” he asks, voice low and thick around the lump in his throat.

“Yuri,” the boy spits out, eyes narrowing. “What’s it to you, old man?”

Otabek snatches at a handful of gold hair, unfazed by the boy’s loud curses. “You will show the boss respect—“

“Put him in the suite for now,” Viktor says.

His family startles, heads whipping round, while Otabek’s brow twitches almost imperceptibly. 

“But Viktor,” Mila says, “That’s—“

“The suite,” Viktor says with finality.

Nodding, Otabek drags the boy out by the back of his collar, screams of  _leggo, y’asshole, y’dumb fuck_  trailing behind them.

“He’s an Alpha, at least,” Georgi says after a long pause.

“Just presented, though,” Mila counters, nose wrinkling. “Judging by his uncontrollable release of pheromones all over the room.”

“Might be hard to tame, then,” Christophe drawls.

“He shares a name with my beloved,” Viktor says, sinking down into his seat, propping his chin on gloved hands. Hiding the tremor in his arms under the guise of unwavering composure. “Who am I to argue with fate?”

Mila hesitates, then, “Yuuri was an Omega.”

Viktor closes his eyes. Breathes.

His men had thought him mad for selecting an Omega for a consigliere, but Yuuri was his serenity, his moral compass, his sanity. He challenged every irrational decision, questioned the need for blood feuds and petty retaliation. Ah, but his prudence didn’t make him any less brutal; Viktor fell hard, after all, from watching Yuuri ram a pistol into the mouth of a gibbering traitor and promptly, without pause, blow the man’s brains all over Viktor’s expensive Persian rug.

God, how he misses his mate.

“He will go through the necessary initiations,” Viktor says, leaning back, finger to his lips. His family nods, understanding that the topic is no longer up for debate. “Now, where are we with the Leroy family?”

 

* * *

 

When Viktor enters the suite, he’s struck by the absence of the familiar scent he had grown to cherish. For the past six months, he has been avoiding the room, too afraid of the memories: of dark eyes, bright and warm, of unrestrained laughter that makes his heart buoyant, of a beautiful, wiry body he mapped lovingly with his mouth, night after night.

The boy—Yuri—is propped up in the corner of the king-sized bed, staring into a picture frame in his hands. He looks up when Viktor closes the door.

“Who’s this,” Yuri asks, holding up the frame.

Viktor’s chest constricts so hard he can barely breathe.

It’s Yuuri, his fedora tilted at a rakish angle, the corner of his eyes crinkled in a warm smile. There’s a pretty flush on his cheeks too, glowing even in monochrome shades. Viktor remembers the suit and Yuuri’s embarrassed delight; how good his beloved looked, dressed in blue and silver – an anniversary gift to commemorate their love. 

“My mate and right-hand man,” Viktor murmurs. “He…” Something pricks up in the back of his throat, but he bites the word out, clenching his jaw. “… died. Shielded me from a Leroy family hit-man.”

“Huh,” Yuri says. He glares at the photograph, eyebrows furrowing. “Weird.”

Viktor pauses. That’s not a reaction he expected. “What, exactly, do you find weird?”

“I’m pretty sure I saw him in the bathroom just a minute ago. Scared the living shit outta me—“

Viktor doesn’t hear the rest of Yuri’s words. His feet have already carried him to the bathroom, his heart surging with joy, with  _hope_ —

He stumbles in, bracing himself at the porcelain sink with one hand, a shock of cold blazing through the leather.

Empty, he realizes. 

The bathroom is empty.  

Empty as his life, his existence. As the human-shaped hole left inside of him.

Viktor slumps to the floor tiles, trying to even himself. Steady the world lurching around him. Stupid, stupid, stupid. What did he expect? To see Yuuri standing by the tub, warm and loving and alive? To see him smile again, radiant in the golden rectangle of light spilling from the open window?

“—rror.”

Weakly, Viktor raises his head.

Yuri is there. Staring past him, eyes wide.

“I said,” he says quietly, “Look at the mirror.”

Viktor does.

And then his heart swells and swells, so big and unbearable that he fears his chest may burst wide open. 

In the wet mist on the silver pane, written with a slight curve to the vowels that Viktor has seen on letters, lists, and silly little notes filled with hearts and words of tender affection:

_Watch over him for me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	11. Omegaverse / Ancient Egypt / Crossdressing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by happy-island-5 @ tumblr
> 
> Check out this wonderful artwork of [Viktor and Yuuri in their Ancient Egypt garbs](https://ammoniium.tumblr.com/post/168363051911/dreaming-fireflies-answered-this-wonderful-prompt) by the lovely ammoniium @ tumblr

Yuuri feels ridiculous.

A harem full of fertile female Omegas, and the king chooses  _him_  to try on a new linen dress so light and faded that it’s practically see-through. He’s nothing, really, just a travelling dancer and a Beta, with no scent, no reproductive capacity, no purpose.

And yet the Pharaoh offers him a room after his performance, implores him to stay another night. He can’t forget, either, the heat of the Pharaoh’s stare on his skin, the sharp blast of pheromones—domineering and  _possessive_ —as he sways to the graceful reverberations of a lyre, the edge of his dance robes brushing against naked ankles.

A handsome Alpha of divine blood, laying claim on an insignificant Beta?

Unheard of.

Whatever the reason, the king’s word is law.

So Yuuri presents himself at the royal audience chamber, where the Pharaoh is lounging, flanked on both sides by his most trusted bodyguards.

“Wow,” the king breathes, straightening on his throne. Yuuri remains prostrate on the stone floor, suddenly very aware of all eyes on his exposed figure. “You are a vision. More so than I anticipated.”

“I am beyond honored, your majesty—“

“’Viktor’ to you,” the king says. A ripple of surprise runs through the chambers, but the guards raise no objection. To anger the Pharaoh is to anger the Gods themselves. “And you may rise, so I can look upon you more closely.”

Slowly, Yuuri obeys. The dress is fitting, slipping and dipping around the curves of his muscles, his hips. Not that it matters, given the transparency of the wispy material. He swallows, heat pulsing through his veins as the Pharaoh approaches him with the gaze of a man chasing a mirage in the desert, desperate to quench his thirst.

For a moment, that’s all the king does. Looks and looks and looks, as though he wants to burn the sight of Yuuri in his memories. As though he’s afraid Yuuri might crumble at his very touch. Then, finally, almost reverently, he reaches out, fingers brushing the hair across Yuuri’s temple, trailing down to the shell of his ear. Yuuri shivers, and the king’s lips curl, pleased, before his fingertips follow the line of Yuuri’s neck, the curve of his shoulder, his bicep, his chest. Right down to his waist, where it lingers, soft and careful.

“Do you like the dress?” the Pharaoh says, voice hushed.

“Yes,” Yuuri murmurs. Hesitant – no, reluctant to break the spell.

The king smiles. “Good.” His hand slides down, the curve of his palm warm on Yuuri’s hip. “Then you will wear it when you join me in my chambers tonight.”

Yuuri’s eyes widen. “Your majesty—“

“Viktor,” the Pharaoh says admonishingly.

“Oh, um…” Yuuri casts a glance at the guards, but their gazes are kept deliberately on a fixed point in the distance. “… Viktor,” he concedes, flushing at the way the king’s face lights up despite his insolence. “I am a Beta, and unworthy of such attention.”

The Pharaoh—no, Viktor—chuckles. “I believe I am the authority on who deserves attention in this realm.” He tilts his head toward a guard. “Isn’t that right, Popovich?”

The guard snaps to attention, knocking the butt of his spear against the stones. “Yes, your majesty. You are the son of Ra, creator and ruler of all life. Your word is law.”

Viktor nods in approval. “That aside, you have quite an enticing scent for a Beta. Far more enticing than any Omega I have come across.”

“I do…?” Yuuri says, eyelashes dipping.

“You do.” Viktor brings Yuuri’s hand to his lips for a kiss. “So what do you say? Will you join me tonight?”

Yuuri inhales. It’s terribly, terribly hard to say no, when Viktor’s Alpha scent has enveloped him, protective and inviting, when the light of the palace fires falls across the pale planes of Viktor’s chest just so. But he knows what it means to called into the Pharaoh’s chambers for the night. He knows he won’t be good enough. “I, I am afraid I have never… um…”

Viktor blinks as Yuuri struggles to find the words. Then, slowly, like the first rays of the morning sun peeking over the distant horizon, Viktor understands.

“I promise to treasure you as though you were the Goddess Isis herself.”

Yuuri blushes. And after a moment’s pause, bobs his head once, too overcome to speak.

Viktor’s smile is incandescent.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri no longer feels quite as ridiculous in the dress.

Especially when Viktor pushes it past his knees and presses his mouth on trembling thighs, drags his tongue across heated skin.

Yuuri sees now how people can be driven mad with lust. He might have wondered how many others Viktor has entertained in his chambers, if the king weren’t so determined to turn his brain to mush, kissing and sucking a line of marks right down to his—

“Oh,” Viktor says, voice hoarse. “Oh, my silly little Yuuri.” His fingers twitch against Yuuri’s hips. “You are most definitely not a Beta.”

“W-What? But I— ah!”

Yuuri’s head falls back, arching into Viktor’s tongue, and there’s no more talking between them. Not until dawn breaks and sunlight filters through the windows and Yuuri realizes, to his mortification and Viktor’s amusement, that the silk sheets are soaked with more than just sweat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	12. Angel / Slavery / Futuristic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by myseryluvscompany

It’s said that we each have a guardian angel.

Assigned at birth, they hover over us, silent and watchful. Never speaking, never appearing. Simply there, protecting us from the world’s evils until it is our time.  

Viktor swears that he has seen his. Twice.

 

* * *

 

The first time, Viktor was five.

Wandered off while his parents were engaged in conversation with other grown-ups – through the doors of the sky cruise, out onto the walkway. He was enjoying the sight of the clouds, thick and fluffy as giant marshmallows, when a strong gust of wind sent him tumbling. Stole away his most precious—a toy poodle—and drove it down the narrow walkway, always just out of Viktor’s reach, bouncing and rolling right to the very edge.

Viktor might have leapt for it, might have fallen into the open sky, if someone hadn’t plucked the toy from its precarious position and held it out to Viktor with an outstretched hand.

The stranger was perched on the railing, slender frame wrapped in a plain toga. Viktor couldn’t stop staring, thoroughly enchanted by the fall of his bangs, the curl of his eyelashes, the rich warmth of his eyes. And his wings, oh his wings: white and soft and pure, feathers rustling in the breeze.

“Viktor!”

Arms grabbed at him, yanking him away from the edge. As his parents lectured him on the vices of straying off, Viktor’s eyes flickered up in time to watch the wings unfold, slowly, gently. The light behind turning his savior into a beautiful silhouette that rivalled any statue, any painting Viktor had ever seen.

And then he was gone. Vanished into the wisps of clouds streaming alongside the sky cruise.

 

* * *

 

The next and last, Viktor was sixteen.

His parents had died in a horrible car crash, an explosion of light and fire in the sky. Viktor thought it absurd; the year 3014, with its advancements in technology, machinery, and artificial intelligence, and car accidents were still the number one cause of death.

The funeral was a stately affair, with his father being the inventor of the humanoid android X-193 – a servant class modelled after the footmen and housemaids of old. People sent flowers, expressed their condolences. Yakov offered, very generously, to act as a consultant for Viktor until he knew enough to run the business on his own.

There was no time for tears, not for the heir of a world-class inventor.

Viktor was staring out the window of his bedroom—at the falling snow and the cold, lifeless trees—when something soft brushed against his cheek. Viktor’s eyes followed the trail of white, and there he was: perfect as ever, the corners of his soft mouth tipping downwards, his wingtips caressing Viktor, gentle and so very loving.

Viktor straightened, the collar of his suit scratching against his neck. Face twisting into something that resembled a smile. “Ah, how nice of you to—“

“Don’t,” the angel whispered. “Not with me.”

Emotions bubbled up inside Viktor. Churned and boiled and rolled. He tried to contain it as he always did—as he always had—but a sound escaped from his mouth, small and damaged, and he let go. Fell into his angel’s open arms and crumbled, unrestrained sobs clawing their way out of his throat. In his angel’s embrace, he was five again. In his angel’s embrace, he was young and foolish and irresponsible, his father laughing at his antics, his mother hiding a smile behind her silk gloves.

Wings enveloped him, and he wept harder, gasping for breath, fingers curling against light fabric.  

Come morning, Viktor woke up alone on the bed. His arm reaching for a spot that was still warm, white feathers scattered across the sheets.  

Viktor never did learn his name.

But it didn’t stop him from creating a new model in the likeness of his angel, customized for him and only him. It wasn’t difficult, not when the same face appeared in his dreams every night: dark eyelashes, pink lips, and the fall of soft bangs that make the pads of his fingers itch.

Yakov deemed it a waste of material and expenses, but his friend Christophe was beyond amused.

“If your angel looks like  _that_ ,” Christophe chuckled, the eyes of his hologram roving down the android’s figure, “I’d love to see mine.”

“Thank you for the compliment, Master,” the android said.

Christophe whistled. “Master? How kinky.”

“The program uses that as the default,” Viktor said, arms folded. “It would’ve cost time and money to change it to my name.”

The hologram shook with laughter. “Keep telling yourself that, Viktor.”

 

* * *

 

Years pass. Under Yakov’s guidance, Viktor’s business flourishes. By the age of 20, he is the youngest to win the award for Entrepreneur of The Year. By 25, he is included in Forbes’s annual list of 30 under 30. And to this day, his customized model continues to be efficient, beautiful. The sight of it giving Viktor joy and warmth and everything worth waking up for.

Or he thinks it does, until he steps through the teleporter, eyes adjusting in the darkness, to find a familiar silhouette at the living room window.

For a moment, Viktor stands by the door, happy to simply take in the way the moonlight falls across his angel’s face. The way it halos his hair and illuminates his wings, furled soft and relaxed against the lithe frame. (Oh, his android is a poor substitute, indeed.)

“Welcome home, Master.”

Viktor startles, just as his angel turns from the window, brows raised at the sight of the android servant.

“Yes, thank you,” Viktor says, flushing while the android dutifully helps him with his coat. He feels nervous about his angel seeing an exact replica of himself. Of his angel’s reaction to discovering the extent of his obsession. “I would like to be alone for the rest of the night.”

“As you wish, Master.”

The angel approaches as the android leaves, lips quirked on one side. “It’s like looking into a mirror,” he says.

Viktor’s heart thuds against his chest. Not only does his angel not seem to mind, but those long eyelashes are ridiculous up-close. So, so ridiculous. “I just…” He swallows. “I just wanted you by my side. Always.”

“Oh,” his angel says, a sweet blush crossing the top of his cheeks. He clasps his hands together and draws in a deep breath. “Well, um. About that. I’ve been sent down to rectify my mistakes.”

“Mistakes?”

“Mistakes,” the angel says with a nod. “Guardians are supposed to stay in the shadows. Not reveal ourselves the way I have. Not stir up…” His eyes dart over to the android that now stands in a corner, powered down to standby mode. “… feelings.”

Viktor hums. Steps closer, fingers brushing against a slim wrist. “Then why did you?”

A beat, before his angel’s gaze drops to the handwoven carpets, lashes dipping, color staining his cheeks. “…because I wanted to.”

Mutual, their feelings are mutual.

For years, Viktor has yearned for this moment. Dreamed of it, over and over. Now that it’s here, he feels lost, his heart so big and full that he’s almost dizzy from the sensation. He brings his angel’s hand to his lips. Kisses the knob of each knuckle softly, lovingly, savoring the sweet sigh in response.

“What now?” Viktor murmurs.

White wings uncurl ever so slightly, feathers rustling. “I stay here, per my boss’s orders. Until I can convince you that your affection is better placed elsewhere.”

Viktor gives a huff of amusement. “Your boss severely underestimates me.”

“I mean to try, regardless,” his angel says, eyes dancing. “So I expect to be here for a while.” He curls a fist round Viktor’s tie, tugs him close. “A long while.”

Ribbons of warmth swirl inside Viktor, and he leans in, resting his forehead on his angel’s. “Does this mean I can finally ask for your name?”

The angel laughs, the sound warm and low in his throat.

“Yuuri. My name is Yuuri.”

 

* * *

 

“Is it just me,” Christophe says, “Or has your android gotten a lot prettier?”

Viktor hides a grin behind the edge of his champagne glass. Around them, guests mill about, exchanging ideas, businesses, name cards. And in the midst of the organized chaos: raven-black hair, bobbing up and down as his “newly modified” servant X-198, or YUURI, weaves expertly through the crowd with a tray full of tasty little canapés.

Across the room, Viktor catches Yuuri’s eye. Feels his heart warm when Yuuri smiles, a secret between them.

It’s said that we each have a guardian angel.

Viktor’s angel is here.

Dressed to the nines in a well-pressed suit, wings hidden, and always, forever, by Viktor’s side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	13. Mermaids / Mafia / Omegaverse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon @ tumblr

Screams, gunshots. Bodies falling, littering the floor.

Yuuri has mixed feelings.

As usual, his journalistic instincts are right on the money; the Marcello family had indeed planned a robbery aboard The Silver Arrow. It would’ve made for a fantastic article: a firsthand account, complete with photographs, of the most cunning train heist of the year. He hadn’t counted on, however, the Giordano family being on board at the same time. He most definitely hadn’t counted on the Marcello family to announce their presence in the first-class dining cart with a flourish of rifles, right when the Giordano family stepped in for their evening meal.

Being caught in the crossfire of a blood feud is not quite his idea of a fruitful investigation.

“Hey, Yuuri,” Phichit says, barely dodging a stray bullet that embeds into the wall above his head. His portable camera swings and smacks into Yuuri’s elbow, untouched. “You know my love for thrills and entertainment, but this is a little—“

“Window,” Yuuri says.

Before Phichit can respond, Yuuri throws open a window, grasps the top frame, and heaves his body out of the cart and into the night air. Wind cracks into him, rushing at breakneck speed, but he hauls himself to the roof of the train, muscles coiled and bunching under his dinner jacket. It’s moments like these that make him ever so grateful for his military training.

Below, Phichit yells something, his words lost in the shrill train whistle.

“What?” Yuuri shouts.

“—I said, there’s a tunnel!”

Yuuri whips round to see the stone wall looming. Closer and closer and—

Without thinking, without pause, Yuuri takes a flying leap.

Phichit’s scream is the last thing he hears before he hits the waters under the tracks.

 

* * *

 

Voices. Blurry and unclear.

Yuuri stirs. Feels the stiffness in his muscles, the cramps. Slowly, he breathes in deep, through his nostrils, filling his lungs. As his senses return, he recognizes the press of a mattress against his back, the curve of a pillow cushioning his head.

He’s alive, for better or worse.

The voices grow more distinct. One is gruff and hurried, as though in constant haste to get somewhere; the other, bright and warm and round, a sweet trill of flutes.

“The man is clearly human. To have him in your room… you know the effort your father has put into concealing us from those monsters.”

“Yes, but he smells so  _nice_.”

“He must be what the humans call an omega.”

“And what is that?”

“… something that a person of your stature shouldn’t concern yourself with.”

“Oh, but how can I not? When I want to concern myself with everything about this lovely creature.”

“Your Highness, I really must protest—“

“Shhh, I think he’s waking up!”

Something brushes against his ear, tucks back his hair. Yuuri allows his eyes to flutter open.

Above him hovers the face that Yuuri can only describe as angelic. Rich blue eyes, a soft pink mouth, and silver hair that tumbles and falls and catches the light. Yuuri’s breath hitches.

“Hello, my sleeping beauty,” the angel croons.

“He…” Yuuri swallows, startled by the dry crack in his voice. “Hello.”

The angel’s eyes sparkle. “Oh, Yakov, Yakov, he speaks!”

There’s a grunt, deep and disapproving.

“What is your name, pretty one?” the angel says, leaning in, the ends of his bright hair dipping past his shoulders, tickling Yuuri’s cheeks.

A whiff of something strong and alluring surrounds Yuuri like a cloak. Overpowers his wits, his senses.

The scent of an alpha.

Yuuri swallows again for a different reason. He was due to take his suppressants on the train, seconds before the chaos broke out. He was due, but he never had the chance. And now he’s suddenly aware that his clothes are clinging to his heated skin, that his collar has fallen open, and the angel’s gaze lingers at the hollow of his throat.

“It’s um, Yuuri. Yuuri Katsuki.”

“Yuuri Katsuki,” the angel breathes, soft and reverent. Yuuri shudders. “My pretty Yuuri, I am—“

“His Royal Highness, Prince Viktor Nikiforov of the great and powerful Kingdom of Atlantis.”

_Atlantis._

Yuuri inhales sharply. He sees, then, the gentle curves of the sun’s rays, the odd waft of Viktor’s hair, the slight murkiness in the air. No, not air. Water.

They’re underwater.

“Yakov,” Viktor sighs.

“The human must know his place,” says Yakov.

“How,” Yuuri says, flushing when Viktor’s eyes flicker to him, deep and penetrating. He tries to rise, but Viktor presses a palm against his chest, gentle but firm.  _Rest_ , says the gesture. “How am I breathing? How does everything feel so…  _normal_?”

Viktor smiles. “I believe humans call it ‘magic’.”

“So you’re…” Yuuri’s eyes dart down Viktor’s chest, past the trim waist. Fully clothed in a plain shirt and pants, with no nudity, no scales, no tail. Nothing like the fairytales, nothing at all out of the ordinary. “But you’re not…”

“We are nothing like the Tritons,” Yakov’s coarse voice scoffs from wherever he is standing. Or floating, more likely. “Common mutated half-breeds.”

Oh, the things Yuuri can write. About the hidden world of Atlantis: its people, culture, and politics. The papers will eat it up, possibly even give him a column, and he will finally have a steady income for himself. For his family. No more sneaking around speakeasies; no more foolish, life-threatening pursuits of homicidal mafia families.  

All he needs now is his trusty photographer. Who hopefully survived the gang war onboard a speeding train.

“Yuu~ri,” Viktor says, and nuzzles against Yuuri’s neck. Breaks Yuuri out of his reverie and short-circuits his mind. The prince is too close to his scent glands, far too close. “Something about your smell draws me to you. Makes me want to hold you and never let go.”

“T-That’s only because I—  _ah_.” Yuuri claps a hand over his mouth, just as Viktor pulls back, brows furrowing. “I’m sorry, it’s just… my heat is starting and you… um…”

“Heat?” Viktor asks quietly. “Is it something that hurts you?”

“No, well…” Color rises in Yuuri’s cheeks. The first time he meets a beautiful nobleman under the sea, and they’re talking about the most embarrassing of matters. Such is his life. “Not if handled… gently.”

Viktor blinks. Takes in the rise and fall of Yuuri’s chest, the sweep of his eyelashes, the maddening scent that radiates from his very pores. Beneath gleaming strands, the gears turn, seeking, probing. And then, slowly, the blue eyes darken, clouding over with understanding – and something else that sears right to Yuuri’s bones.

“Your Highness,” Yakov starts, but Viktor is well ahead of him.

“Out,” Viktor says.

“But he is a  _human_ —“

“ _Out_.”

Even the silence before Yakov’s departure is filled with indignation.

The mattress dips as Viktor climbs on, knees brushing against Yuuri’s thighs, hands pressed firmly on either side of Yuuri’s head.

“Gently, you said?” Viktor says, voice gone low and thick.

Heat pulses through Yuuri’s veins. In all those years since his presentation, he has kept away from alphas, suppressed his hormones and avoided any hint of a tryst. Always terrified of what was to follow, despite Phichit’s reassurances on how fun and pleasurable it can be.

Is meeting a royal merman in an underwater kingdom really all it takes?

“We just met,” he says, words stumbling out in breathless, incoherent stutters. “You don’t… we… we’re different, and I don’t know if we—“

“Let’s find out,” Viktor whispers.

Yuuri swallows, throat working.

Part of him feels he should say no, ask for a separate room until his heat passes. But it’s endearing the way Viktor waits for an answer despite the clear want in his eyes, his scent. It’s respectful and kind. It’s more than Yuuri can ever expect from the alphas on land.

So, he nods. Heart skipping at Viktor’s brilliant smile.

As Yuuri closes his eyes, face tipping up to meet Viktor’s as Viktor slides their mouths together, he can hear Phichit’s cheers, noisier and brighter than the happiest drunk.

 

* * *

 

Even in sleep, Yuuri glows.

Viktor presses a kiss to a shoulder blade before he tugs the covers over the bare back. He wants to curl around Yuuri and touch the marks he made the night before. Follow the trails up and down with his mouth, warm and lazy.

But Yuuri has asked for a favor. And Viktor does so want to please him.

With powerful strokes, he swims out of his chambers and heads straight for his secretary’s office.

“While Yuuri recovers from his heat, we’re to find this human called Phichit on the surface.” Viktor holds up a photograph. “Yuuri is worried that his friend might have been captured or killed by some dangerous organizations called ‘mafia’.”

“Your Highness,” Yakov says in a voice that used to make Viktor feel small and silly. Now, it amuses Viktor to bring it out of him. “I understand your love for all things novel, but is it not enough that Yuuri may very well betray the location of Atlantis to his own kind? Now he expects you to risk your life, exposing yourself to this ‘mafia’ while searching for some other human?”

“My dearest Yakov.” Viktor’s lips curl, white teeth flashing. “We are going up to find Yuuri’s friend.”

Yakov bristles. Then, with a clenched jaw, “Yes, your Highness.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	14. Omegaverse / Soulmate / Celebrity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon @ tumblr

“Mila! Mila, over here!”

“Viktor, this way. Look this way!”

Smiles. Bright, brilliant. Catching in the light of the flashes that dance in his vision. They shift; Viktor rests a palm on the curve of Mila’s hip. Light, respectful. Just enough to give a show of intimacy.

It’s practiced to perfection. Every red carpet, every award show, every grand party: the same song and dance, the same smiles and poses and pretense of a marriage.

Theirs is an agreement, alpha to alpha.

Mila is in love with her feisty Italian make-up artist. On sets, they are inseparable: heads together, giggling and whispering, fingers touching, lacing, hidden well out of sight. The public would have gone wild; the fans, ballistic. A world-renowned alpha actress with a lowly make-up artist – a lowly omega.

The world wasn’t ready.

The world isn’t ready.

And it’s not just Mila, of course.

Viktor himself is, impossibly, inexplicably—

“Yuuri, Yuuri, give us a smile! Big smile!”

Viktor’s gaze flicks over, past the flashes, the line of suits and glittering gowns.

Yuuri Katsuki, international model and darling of the fashion world. Gucci, Ralph Lauren, Giorgio Armani. They adore him, this beautiful omega from a little seaside town in Japan. They adore his androgynous features: the soft fall of his bangs, the hard curve of his muscles. They adore his uncanny switch, the way the shy little schoolboy turns into a man before the camera.

Even now, he’s the picture of charm in a grey, slim-fit Hilfiger suit, dark hair swept back, one hand thrust into a pocket. There’s a slight shift with every flash; a lift of the chin or a cock of the hip. Eyes piercing through the lens and capturing the attention of photographers, reporters. Capturing Viktor’s heart.

“Honey.”

Viktor turns. Mila presses close, makes a show of adjusting his tie.

“You can stare at him all you want in his suite tonight,” she whispers.

Viktor smiles.

Around them, there’s a burst of light and rapid clicks.

 

* * *

 

Viktor finds Yuuri alone on the terrace. Gazing out at the skyline, a cigarette between his fingers. Stepping up, Viktor slips a hand down the lean back, breathes in the familiar, comforting scent.

Yuuri doesn’t move, but his lips curve, the corner of his eyes crinkling in a smile. “Viten’ka.”

“ _Kotyonok_ ,” Viktor murmurs.

Yuuri laughs, warm and tumbling. “Careful, there are reporters everywhere.”

“You started it.”

Yuuri takes a long drag, the end of his cigarette flaring a startling, bright red. “I doubt foreign journalists understand the intricacies of Russian diminutive names.” He sighs, smoke curling in the air. “Or the very definition of ‘intricacy’.”

Viktor’s smile is fond. “You are in a mood tonight.”

“I’m always in a mood at these things.” Yuuri looks up, eyes soft. “How is Mila?”

“She is well.” A strand of hair escapes, dark and curling against fair skin. Viktor’s fingers itch to brush it away. “Happy, with Sara.”

“At least they have each other on sets,” Yuuri says.

Viktor swallows. He understands the resentment, the bitterness; he feels it just as much as his mate. His soulmate.

They knew right away, when their eyes met across the room at the after-party of an awards ceremony. The colors that flooded in, shades of pastels and fluorescents, light and dark and everything in between. Life began for Viktor, then. Life and love.

If only the world would stay out of their way.

Viktor nods at Yuuri’s cigarette. “May I?”

Yuuri’s brows rise an inch. Then, he sinks a hand under his jacket to withdraw a small packet. Offers it to Viktor. Watches, eyes at half-mast, as Viktor leans in for the light.

Viktor knows full well that the sharp blaze of flame highlights the edge of his cheekbones, the shimmer of his hair. The rich affection in his eyes.

He inhales, allowing the toxins to fill his lungs, calm him.

“We can run away, you know.”

The embers in Yuuri’s cigarette glow as Yuuri breathes in.

“You said so yourself once,” Viktor continues. “We could move to your family’s inn in Hasetsu. Quiet, unknown. Off the radar.”

“You know I want nothing more,” Yuuri says. Exhales, wisps of smoke coiling, framing his cheeks. “But you love acting.”

“I do love acting.”

“There we are then.”

“Ah, but do you know  _why_  I love acting?”

Yuuri pauses. Considers his response, as he always does. Too deliberate, too much of a thinker. A steady rock that grounds Viktor’s flighty spirit. “Because it makes you feel alive.”

“Not quite, no.” 

Viktor gives in, brushes at the errant curl.

“I love acting, my  _kotyonok_ , because it makes me feel wanted.”

Yuuri turns, lips parting, his surprise bathed so dazzlingly, alluringly beautiful in the moonlight that Viktor’s chest aches.  

“But I’ve come to realize, with all the adoration and fan letters and living in a great big house with a woman I see as nothing more than a friend…” Viktor drops his hand and trails his touch down Yuuri’s arm. Lingers on the knob of his wrist. “… that I love something else now. Something that means far more to me than acting ever could.”

“Viten’ka,” Yuuri says, voice low and warm.

Viktor tugs Yuuri closer, his gaze caught on the long eyelashes, the soft mouth.

Oh, that mouth.

Throwing caution to the winds, Viktor leans in and kisses Yuuri. Tastes the sweetness he has yearned for all evening, the ash and smoke from the cigarette. And when Yuuri sighs, Viktor reaches for him, hands on the trim waist, heart in his throat.

“Viktor.”

Instantly, they pull apart, Yuuri’s eyes wide.

Mila stands in the doorway, hand on the doorknob. Shielding them from the muted sounds of merriment and laughter behind her.

“Can you not wait until you’re in the privacy of Yuuri’s room?” she teases, as Viktor breathes a sigh of relief.

“Hello, Mila,” Yuuri says, lifting his cigarette, pulling in a deep breath.

“Hello, Yuuri,” Mila says kindly. “I hate to interrupt, but the reporter of some silly entertainment magazine is absolutely insistent about a couple interview.”

“Of course,” Yuuri says.

In Hasetsu, there will be no interruptions, no artificial demonstrations. In Hasetsu, there will only be love and warmth and family.

Viktor presses his lips against the shell of Yuuri’s ear, savoring the shiver, the enticing spike in Yuuri’s scent. “Let us continue this conversation tonight.”

As he returns into the fray, Mila taking his arm as a good wife would, he holds onto the memory of Yuuri’s incandescent smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	15. Urban fantasy / Prison / Time travel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon @ tumblr

Yuuri is hopelessly lost.

He told his parents he was a big boy now, and could easily find his way back from the bathroom. Never was he more wrong.

His aimless wandering has led him to some underground chamber, grey and dull and full of wires and machines. Not at all like the bright conference hall with the silver tinsels and a giant Christmas tree in the center. He weaves around the machines, the lights blinking red and green in the darkness, his five-year-old brain suggesting that, since he’s clearly in a basement of sorts, he ought to find the nearest stairs. Like the staircase he came down on; yes, that’s a good start.

He’s about to do just that when he hears a faint noise, a rustle. He halts mid-step, eyes wide.

“Hello?” he calls, clasping his hands together, heart racing in his chest. “Is someone there?”

“Just me,” says a voice as sweet and silvery as a trio of flutes.

“Are you human?” Yuuri asks meekly.

A gentle chuckle, then, “Yes, very much so. Come see for yourself.”

Well, it doesn’t sound dangerous, at least.

Slowly, carefully, Yuuri follows the direction of the voice, eyes darting from shadow to shadow, making it safely to a corner that holds a row of rooms with metal bars in lieu of doors. As Yuuri hesitates, wondering if he has chosen the wrong direction again, an arm, long and slender, slips through the bars of the farthest room to wave at him with a gloved hand.

“Over here.”

When Yuuri treads over, he finds that the arm belongs to a fairly human-looking man, if not for his striking hair that flows like a waterfall and shimmers silver in the dim light. Tall and limber, the man is dressed in a long coat that reaches his ankles. And when he crouches down, Yuuri gazes into the most beautiful eyes he has ever seen, warm and soft and so very blue.

“Hello, little one,” the pretty man says, the corner of his eyes crinkling in a smile.

“Hello,” Yuuri says, head ducking, suddenly feeling shy.

“What are you doing here all alone?”

“I got lost trying to find my parents.”

“How scary that must be for you,” the man says kindly. “Do they work here, your parents?”

“No, my parents work in an inn. We bring food for big parties.”

“Ah, I see.” The man folds his arms round his knees. “That explains why they want to deal with me later,” he mutters under his breath.

“Um,” Yuuri says, tugging at the edge of his thick sweater, embroidered with snowflakes and tiny reindeers. “Why are you behind these bars?”

The man smiles. “Because, little one, the security guards think I’m an elf.”

Yuuri studies him, brows furrowing. Mari once told him that an elf’s pointed ears are the best way to tell an elf apart from a human, and this man’s ears are perfectly round. “I don’t think you’re an elf.”

“Well, you’re very smart for your age.”

Yuuri glows at the praise. How silly of those grown-up security guards; this stranger is clearly a very pretty, very nice human.

The man presses close to the bars, drops his voice to a whisper. “Shall I let you in on a secret?”

Nodding, Yuuri leans in, chubby hands grasping the cold bars.

“I’m from the future.”

Yuuri’s mouth falls open. “ _No_.”

“Yes,” the man says gravely.

“What, um…” Yuuri rocks on his feet, a sense of thrill running through his veins. It’s the most excitement he’s had since his mother decided to let him join their food deliveries. “What’s the future like?”

“Not too different, really. More supernatural beings, I suppose. Some aliens and spaceships.” The man’s lips quirk upwards. “Lots of time traveling.”

Yuuri brightens. “Does that mean I’ll get to time travel, too?”

The man winks. “If you join my unit as a fellow agent.”

“Your unit?” Yuuri asks, head tilting to one side.

“A secret agency that gathers intelligence about supernatural creatures and their leaders.”

Yuuri grips the bars, eyes sparkling. “Like James Bond?”

“Yes,” the man laughs, bright as bells. “Like James Bond.”

“I think my mom will like that,” Yuuri says, recalling his mother’s giggles and gushing over the handsome actor on their television screen. “She likes James Bond.” He beams. “Does your mom like what you’re doing?”

The warmth in the blue eyes dims, brimming with so much emotion that Yuuri feels his heart wrench in his chest.

“I lost both my parents when I was your age,” the man says softly.

“Oh,” Yuuri says. He takes his bottom lip between his teeth. Chews hard as his brain works and works, trying hard to find some way—anything at all—to make the pretty man look less sad. Then, finally, the light bulb sparks, bright and radiant.

“You can join my family.”

The man straightens and blinks at him, wide-eyed. “What was that?”

“You can join my family,” Yuuri says again, louder, fingers picking at the crisscross pattern of his sweater. “There’s my mom, and my dad, and my sister, Mari. Mari likes to pick on people, but she does it ‘cause she loves you. And my dad, my dad likes to drink, so he’ll be happy to have someone who can drink with him. And then there’s my mom; she likes to cook, so she’ll love to have one more person to feed.”

There’s a beat, and then the man reaches out, rests a gloved hand on Yuuri’s head. “And you, little one?” he whispers, his voice strangely hoarse. “What do you like?”

Yuuri considers the question for a moment. “I like—”

“Yuuri! Katsuki Yuuri, where are you?”

Instantly, the hand withdraws, and Yuuri feels a sudden loss of warmth. He glances at the man who smiles at him, eyes bright and tinged a soft pink at the edges.

“Go,” he says. “Before you worry your parents too much.”

Yuuri nods, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “Will I see you again?”

“You will.” A hand ruffles his hair, gently, fondly. “I’ll make sure of that.”

 

* * *

 

“Yuuri! Right! I told you—”

“Right, yes,” Yuuri says through gritted teeth. He glances over his shoulder at the horde of werewolves charging after him down the long corridor, jaws gnashing, giant paws slipping and sliding across the marble floor. “Trust me, Phichit, I  _tried_  right.”

“Oh shit,” Phichit says helpfully over the intercom.

“Not your fault, heat sensors can’t detect the undead.” Something howls behind him, long and baleful – the sound of a hunting call. Yuuri throws on a burst of speed, ignoring the jolt of protest in his lungs. “Some direction would be nice, though!”

“There’s a staircase on the— no, no, not there, bunch of elven soldiers, uh, try uh, um—”

“ _Phichit_.”

“I’m  _trying_! What do you want me to tell you? You’re fucked, nice knowing you?”

“ _Security breach_ ,” the PA system announces for the hundredth time. “ _Prisoner 112993 has escaped. Security breach. Prisoner 112993 has_ —”

Heaving, Yuuri veers around a corner, his limbs growing heavier by the second. It feels as though he’s been running for days. Might as well have been, given the werewolves’ tenacious pursuit of their quarry. Woe betide any that is foolish enough to allow a whiff of one’s scent, especially on a full moon.

So far, being a secret agent isn’t all that it’s cut out to be.

He expects ciphers, spy gadgets, famous celebrities, and glamorous locations. Instead, he receives assignments that has him chasing after elf leaders through time, hopping back and forth for bits and pieces of intelligence on the elves’ secret plans for world conquest. Culminating, finally, in the most recent assignment of being thrown into an elven prison so he can gather information from vampires, fallen angels, and all manner of supernatural criminals for three years.

Three very long years.

“Hang on, looks like a window in the room on the left! Except there’s no—”

“I’ll take it,” Yuuri yells. He turns, shoulder slamming the door open, before he stumbles for a few paces, rights himself, and, with a sharp inhale, throws himself straight through the clear glass in front of him.

He feels the impact, the shatter; hears Phichit shouting something unintelligible.

 _Oh hell_ , he thinks, as he soars out into empty space, the top of a green forest stretched out far and wide beneath his feet.

“Tell me you have a jetpack,” Phichit says in his ear, so low and disquieted that Yuuri knows his best friend is damn near hysterics.

Yuuri starts to laugh, the adrenaline fueling his endorphins, driving him just a little bit mad. Limbs spreading, he braces for the plunge, for the feel of his heart leaping out his throat. For the final, inevitable crack of blinding pain.

“It’s way better than being torn apart by werewolves,” he snorts.

Phichit’s voice rises to a fevered pitch. “ _That’s not funny, you ass_ —”

A deafening roar drowns out the rest of his sentence. Something crashes into Yuuri then, plucking him out of the air and sweeping him up, up, up, strong arms wrapping around him in a firm embrace.

When Yuuri lifts his head, his heart soars in an entirely different manner, for an entirely different reason. It’s the same face he sees in his dreams every night—the same face that kept him going for the past three years—with hair that glints silver in the light, a mouth that curves, soft and pink, and warm, warm eyes that blaze a deep, brilliant blue.

“Hello, little one,” the pretty man says above the rumble of his jetpack. (Far, far prettier than Yuuri remembers.)

“Hello,” Yuuri says, feeling as shy as he did those many years ago, hyperaware that he’s clad in a hideous, oversized jumpsuit.

“Got the information you needed?”

“I have the elf leader’s plans.”

“Well done. Not many can survive elven prison, much less gain any valuable intelligence.”

Heat rises to Yuuri’s cheeks; even as an adult, he’s still affected by that praise. The intercom crackles in his right ear, Phichit’s words lost in the static.

“Sorry I took so long,” the man says, hands warm on Yuuri’s waist. “Bit hard to find someone who jumps around the time stream as much as I do.”

“Part of the job, right?” Yuuri says lightly.

“Oh, yes,” the man chuckles.

“You, um…” Yuuri curls his hands round the man’s neck, slides them down the wings of his shoulder blades. Uncertain if he’s still dreaming. “You never told me your name.”

The man smiles. “Viktor. Viktor Nikiforov.”

“Viktor,” Yuuri says, rolling the name on his tongue. A strong name for such a pretty face. He clears his throat. “I have a complaint, Agent Viktor Nikiforov.”

“What’s that, Agent Yuuri Katsuki?”

“Being a secret agent is  _nothing_  like James Bond.”

Viktor’s laugh rumbles warmly against Yuuri’s chest, sweet and bright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	16. Tech support / Urban fantasy / Soulmates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon @ tumblr

_Hello, my name is Yuuri._

The rest of the sentence is lost in the rush of blood to Viktor’s ears, in his sudden and heightened focus on those five simple words. Words that have been etched in dark lettering since birth, trailing around his ankle like a charm bracelet, a symbol of eternal devotion.

For centuries, he has dreamed of hearing his soulmate speak those fateful words. For centuries, he has pictured them having a meet-cute moment at a party, a coffee shop, perhaps even at a poodle gathering, their enthusiastic dogs winding round them just like in that adorable Disney cartoon.

He never once expected to hear the words over the phone, from tech support, in front of more than a hundred students in his Classical Mythology class.

“—hello?” his soulmate says on the other line, his voice as sweet as a chorus of angels. “Is everything okay?”

Viktor breathes, in and out. He has to stay calm; students are already casting looks of concern in his direction. “This is Viktor,” he says quietly.

A heartbeat, and then, sounding strangled, “Do you spell that with a K?”

“Yes,” he whispers.

“ _Oh_.”

There’s a clatter of something hitting a surface, followed by another pause, longer than the first. Viktor’s own mind races, his thoughts tripping and stumbling over each other, full of questions and excitement. Does Yuuri like dogs; how does he take his coffee; is he  _human_?

The last one fills Viktor with a jolt of sudden dread; he might not survive the death of his soulmate after waiting this long. Might not survive if his soulmate is too weak to take a draining of his life force. As an incubus, Viktor has no trouble finding a partner to warm his bed, but he wants a mate to call his own, a mate whose life force he can feed on, adoringly, lovingly. For eternity and more.

“Um,” Yuuri says, his voice trembling. Viktor desperately wants to reach out. Tug him close and stroke his back until the nervousness passes, until Viktor’s own heart stops pounding against his ribs. “I don’t really know what to say, but um… I can maybe help with the tech problem you’re having first?”

“Ah, right, of course.” Viktor sneaks a glance at his students. Bored, they have begun talking amongst themselves, the lecture hall filling with growing noise. “I’m having trouble connecting to the projector in room 1211.”

Yuuri hums, finding his composure with the momentary distraction. “Are you using the desktop or your own device?”

“I’m using a laptop.” Viktor drifts over to the podium, taps at the connector. “It usually works when I connect it to the blue thing, but not this time.”

It’s a sign of professionalism and experience that Yuuri knows exactly what Viktor means by ‘the blue thing’. “It could be the wiring… are you teaching right now?”

“Yes.”

“Then it might be better for me to come down.” Viktor’s heart sings at the thought of finally, _finally_ , seeing his mate face-to-face. “Is there anything else you could do with your class while I set up your laptop for you?”

“I could lecture without slides until you’re done.”

“All right.” Then, shyly, “See you in a bit.”

A click, before the familiar high-pitched beeping starts. Thrums through his body as realization strikes, the cold screen of his cellphone still pressed against his ear.

Yuuri’s coming.  _His soulmate is coming._

Inside, Viktor shrieks like an adolescent schoolgirl.

 

* * *

 

Viktor’s eyes dart to the door the second it cracks open.

A young man pops through the gap, his body curled inwards to avoid drawing attention to himself. Raven-black hair, a lithe frame in a plain T-shirt and shorts, and legs that stretch on and on, ending with a simple pair of sneakers.

 _Oh_ , Viktor thinks, joy flooding his being.  _He’s adorable._

And as Yuuri approaches the front of the lecture hall, hopping down two steps at a time, Viktor’s breath catches at the sight of the wings folded against the man’s back. They’re not the usual wings that bear the snowy feathers of an angel, or the ostentatious colors of a siren. No, Yuuri’s wings are black and bony and leathery, the wings of a rare species found only in the Far East, with a divine life force that rivals even the gods.

“You’re a dragon,” Viktor breathes. Not at all caring that he has stopped mid-lecture to turn to Yuuri, that his students are watching, possibly even pulling out their cellphones.

“Is that okay?” Yuuri asks, lashes sweeping down in a dark fan, brushing against the lens of his blue-framed glasses.

Viktor forgets how to breathe. Up close, he sees the intricate marks tattooed into Yuuri’s skin, traveling up and around his hand, his wrist. Sees the warmth in honey-brown eyes, the flush that spreads across soft cheeks and dips down a swan-like neck.

Viktor wonders just how far that flush goes; if Yuuri’s chest flushes as prettily as his face.

“More than okay,” he manages.

Yuuri’s smile is so bashful that Viktor wants to press his mouth on Yuuri’s lips, on the fateful words emblazoned above the gentle line of collarbones like a necklace.

A perfect companion to Viktor’s ankle bracelet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	17. Serial Killer / Arranged Marriage / Victorian Era, Part 2 & 3

Viktor knows when he is smitten.

He recognizes the thrum of his heartbeat, the sweat of his hands on the reins, the flush across the top of his cheeks. The urge to press against the object of his affection, fold round the lithe frame and whisper sweet nothings into the man’s skin.  

Dr. Katsuki, as he is with everything else, is marvelous at horse riding. Dressed in all black, save for the pure-white cravat that draws attention to his slender neck, he makes for a striking painting as he leads the horse on an ambling trot down the open field, sunlight catching in his hair.

“Do you ride often?” Viktor asks, guiding his own horse to the doctor’s side.

“Occasionally,” Dr. Katsuki says. His smile drives a delightful shiver down Viktor’s spine. “The Lords I serve have been quite generous with their time and horses.”

“I must say, I cannot imagine my family physician riding as well as you do.”

“Dr. Feltsman?” Dr. Katsuki lets out a soft noise of understanding. “He has never been keen on the ‘foolish luxuries of the upper classes’.”

“You know of him?” Viktor says, eyebrows raised.

“Certainly. He is renowned in my field.”

“For being outdated and a stuffy old nag?”

Dr. Katsuki’s lips quirk upward at the corners. “I would not go quite that far.”

They reach a small brook that runs across the length of the field, babbling lightly over rocks and stones.

“There is a bridge,” Viktor starts, but Dr. Katsuki breaks away, heels digging his horse into a canter. There’s a heartbeat between the moment Viktor stops talking and the bunch of muscles in the horse’s powerful thighs, and then Dr. Katsuki sends the beast vaulting clear over the brook. Soars past Viktor, back lowered, bum rising off the saddle, the curves beautifully accentuated in those tight—impossibly tight—riding pants.

It takes a moment for Viktor find his voice again. Especially when Dr. Katsuki looks over his shoulder, his mouth curved ever so sweetly, face glowing with such triumph.

“Is there anything you cannot do, Dr. Katsuki?”

“Oh, a great many things, Lord Nikiforov,” Dr. Katsuki laughs, melodious and tumbling.

Viktor’s heart trips and falls, willingly, happily.

“Viktor,” he says.

Dr. Katsuki’s eyes widen.

Driving a heel into his horse’s side, Viktor sails over the brook with ease, landing next to his world, his life, his love.

“Please.” Boldly, he lets himself reach out, takes Dr. Katsuki’s hand in his. “Call me Viktor.”

Dr. Katsuki blushes, pink coloring his cheeks. “Then you must call me Yuuri.” He looks up at Viktor through his eyelashes, bashful and coy. “…Viktor.”

 _Ah_ , Viktor thinks.

He is beyond smitten. 

 

* * *

 

“Viktor! I’ve been looking for you  _everywhere_.”

Viktor swings off the saddle and hands the reins to his groomsman, before turning, slowly, to face his mother. Hands on her hips, the formidable woman has her eyes narrowed, her mouth pressed in a thin line – the very picture of irritation. This will take some explaining; his mother has always insisted on knowing his whereabouts, fearful that his “roguish charms” will cause a scandal and bring about the downfall of their noble family. This time, however: this time, he wanted privacy, wanted to spend a moment alone with a most charming individual, away from the prying eyes of his mother’s spies.

He opens his mouth to offer an excuse, but Dr. Katsuki—ah, no,  _Yuuri_ —beats him to it.

“Your Grace,” Yuuri says, his voice smooth as silk. He slips off his horse, bows low and deep. “I’m afraid I am to blame for Lord Nikiforov’s absence. I asked for his company this afternoon.”

Viktor is about to protest when his mother—his stately, refined mother in her fifties, bedecked with jewels and all manner of sparkling things for the sake of image and reputation— _titters_  like a virgin maiden.  

Something inside Viktor shrivels and dies.

“Dr. Yuuri Katsuki,” she says, strangely breathless, unaware of Viktor’s discomfort. “I have heard nothing but praise for you, my dear. If you could only hear how Viscount Hansworth gushes about your bedside manners, how Lord Egremont sings about your miraculous treatments. And now I find it rather a travesty that no one has said a thing about how…” She lifts a gloved hand to her lips, half-lidded eyes roving Yuuri’s figure, up and down. “… _young_ you are.”

“Mother,” Viktor groans.

“I am old,” his mother sniffs, “Not blind.”

“Good god.”

“You flatter me, your Grace,” Yuuri says, the corners of his mouth twitching in a way that makes Viktor itch to kiss him for his infinite patience.

“How lovely to know a young man with manners,” his mother says, shooting Viktor a piercing look. She turns a smile back to Yuuri, bright and winsome. “You must stay for dinner. His lordship has been suffering from a most uncomfortable ailment; he will want to tap on your medical expertise.”

Surprise crosses Yuuri’s features. “Surely Dr. Feltsman…”

“Mm yes,” she sighs, gazing up wistfully at the sky. “We stay with the man out of loyalty, really, but he hasn’t quite caught up with the latest innovations. I am confident he won’t begrudge a consultation between friends.” Her smile turns edged, sharp as a sword. “We are friends now, Dr. Katsuki, are we not?”

“Ah,” says Yuuri, while Viktor rears up in indignation. In desperation, his mother spends her free hours formulating countless plans for accumulating assets and saving their expenditures, plans that cheat, bully, and exploit friends and enemies alike. Persists in doing so despite his father’s fierce disapproval, fueled by her need to reign as Duchess on a fine estate for the remainder of her life.  With her excessive adulation of Yuuri’s skills, true as they may be, he should have seen her deviousness coming a mile away.

“Mother, you will  _pay_  the good doctor for his services.”

She gives an unladylike scoff, flicking her wrist at him. “Oh, do calm down. I’m only asking him to join us for dinner.”

“But you clearly suggested—“

“I will be honored,” Yuuri cuts in gently, a hand to his heart, tipping forward in a small bow.

“Excellent,” she says, clasping her hands together. “I shall go down to the kitchens and inform the cook. Viktor, darling, have your valet find a suitable dinner jacket for Dr. Katsuki, will you?” Her gaze drops down, along with Viktor’s stomach. “As much as I appreciate those riding clothes, they are a tad too  _form-fitting_  for the dining table.”

Once she sweeps away, a whirlwind leaving the scene of wreckage, Viktor exhales in a rush of breath. “I must apologize for my mother’s behavior. She can be very… enthusiastic when it comes to matters about money.”

“Or lovely young men with manners?” Yuuri teases. 

Mutely, Viktor shakes his head, unable to even dignify that with a response. 

It’s a long trek from the stables to the main house, but there’s something comforting about walking by Yuuri’s side, as though Viktor is sitting by the fireplace, wrapped in a thick quilt and nodding off to the crackling fire. As though, for once in his life, Viktor is really, truly, home.

“Please don’t feel you must give any advice,” Viktor tells Yuuri. “Not without proper payment.”

“I don’t mind at all, honestly.” Yuuri smiles at him, his eyes warm and dark, cheeks dusting pink. “I welcome any opportunity to meet your parents.”

Viktor feels his face grow warm then, his heart pound. Suddenly, he’s nervous, more nervous than he ever has been.

It will take every effort to stay composed in the dining room, with the thought of his parents unwittingly being introduced to his greatest and only love interest in all 28 years of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	18. Greek Mythology / Royalty / Medical

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by crimsonanonym @ tumblr

Prince Viktor has always been a sickly child.

The royal physicians have tried everything in their medical arsenal. Trained under the great Hippocrates himself, they alone possess the knowledge, skills, and instruments to restore balance to the humors, to retrieve a man from near death and restore him back to health. Yet, with the prince, they are hopelessly, despairingly, lost. Seung-gil informs the King and Queen to accept the inevitable; Jean-Jacques can only laugh and change the subject; even Emil suggests, with much kindness, to make the young Prince as comfortable as possible.

Viktor hears everything. Takes in the sadness in his mother’s eyes, the frustration in his father’s. Laid in bed, he wishes he could be like the other children, yearns to run out into the gardens to dance and laugh and play in the sunshine. But he is apparently too weak, too susceptible to illnesses that may cause a cold in an otherwise normal child but instant death for him.

By the age of thirteen, he has resigned himself to withering away in his room, alone and unloved.

That is, until Yuuri shows up.

Beautiful, mysterious Yuuri, with hair that falls across his forehead, with a mouth that curves in a sweet bow, with eyes that glitter like opals.

Wrapped in a cloak that’s black as night, he emerges from the darkness while Viktor lies awake. Sits on the edge of Viktor’s bed, the shape of a young man, seemingly unnerved to be caught in a royal’s chambers in the middle of the night.

“Hello, Viktor,” he says, shadows crawling strangely across his features.

“Hello,” Viktor says, shifting into a sitting position. After all the scrapping and curtseying and  _your Royal Highness_ , he likes the lack of the deference, finds it intriguing. “Have the gods answered my prayers for a friend?”

There’s a pause, before soft lips twitch upward in a smile. 

“You may call me ‘Yuuri’.”

They meet every night from then on. Viktor tells Yuuri about his days in bed: how he reads, and reads, and reads. Devours every text his parents can get their hands on, from the platitudes of Plato and Aristotle, to the scientific writings of Euclid and Archimedes. Yuuri smiles and nods and listens so very attentively, without tears, without irritation. In turn, he shares about the outside world: how sunlight falls and catches in the waters of vast oceans, how animals roll and tumble in the white snow of winter, how flowers sprout and bloom in spring. And every few nights, he brings in an assortment of little gifts for Viktor. Poppies one night, a four-leaf clover on another. Even a furry grey rabbit that falls asleep in Viktor’s arms and frightens his skittish mother the next morning.  

There’s something about Yuuri that Viktor can’t look away from, something that Viktor wants to hold forever, cupped tight and safe in his palms.

For his eighteenth birthday, Viktor asks his parents for art tools so he can preserve Yuuri forever in watercolors.

Yuuri’s delight outshines his embarrassment— _No one’s ever wanted to capture me in painting before_ —and he poses as instructed: seated on a chair by the window with one leg crossed over the other, his hands resting on his lap.

“Have you painted before?” he says, an endearing flush of pink suffusing his cheeks.

“Completed my first masterpiece at three,” Viktor quips, savoring the soft huff of laughter.

For once, they sit in silence – one that’s soft and warm at the edges. Comforting. Far unlike the kind with his parents. Their silence is hot and suffocating, wrapped in a thick blanket of austerity and bleakness. Viktor wonders if the silence with Yuuri is anything like tasting the sweetness of rose wine, or sharing bread and cheese with friends, or even the warmth of sharing his bed with another. He’ll never know, and finally, after eighteen years, he can say that he doesn’t care. 

He has Yuuri now; Yuuri who visits every night without fail, who listens to his dull stories with bright eyes, as though he speaks with the eloquence and wisdom of Socrates. 

Yuuri who possesses an ethereal beauty that rivals Aphrodite Herself.

“You haven’t aged,” Viktor says suddenly. “Either you’re an immortal being, or you’ve made a deal with Geras.”

Yuuri’s mouth curves. “The first one.”

“What type of immortal are you?” Viktor’s brush dips in his palette, makes a bold stroke across the canvas. “A nymph? Or a demi-god?” 

“What do you think I am?” 

“A demi-god,” Viktor tries. “One that soothes the dreams of troubled mortals like myself.”

Yuuri laughs, the warmth in his voice flooding through Viktor’s being. “No, but you’re on the right track. Morpheus is a close relative.”

“All the gods are related in some way or another.”

“True.”

“Can I at least know your real name?”

“I go by many names.”

Viktor frowns. “Are you not telling me because you must leave once I know the truth?”

“No.” Yuuri smirks at Viktor over the canvas edge, lips pressed together in a way that makes Viktor want to kiss him. “I was supposed to leave a long time ago.”

It takes Viktor three nights to finish the painting. 

Yuuri thinks it’s a work of art, not that he would ever think otherwise. And even then, even knowing that Yuuri will adore everything he does, Viktor is still struck by the way Yuuri’s face lights up, the way his eyelashes dip, the way his entire frame glows in the candlelight with unadulterated joy. 

That night, Viktor gives in. Spent years telling himself that Yuuri is off-limits, an untouchable gift sent by the gods, only to close the distance between them and fit their mouths together, like it’s the most natural thing to do. And oh – it’s soft and sweet and everything Viktor has dreamed of until Yuuri—his Yuuri—chuckles and pulls away.

“You’ve grown taller,” Yuuri says, his fingertips brushing at Viktor’s bangs, caressing the curve of his cheek. “More than I, even.”

Viktor leans in, presses his forehead against Yuuri’s. “Do you like that? Or do you prefer to have me smaller than you?”  

Yuuri’s fingers find their way into Viktor’s hair, carding tenderly through the silver strands. “I like you just the way you are,” he whispers.

Somewhere deep in his chest, Viktor feels something loosen, thawing like the earth after a long, icy winter.

That night, he learns the warmth of sharing his bed with another.

When Viktor reveals his painting the next morning, the reactions are entirely unexpected. The Queen bursts into tears, while the King flies into a rage. 

“How  _dare_  you upset your mother with such monstrosity! Is it not enough that you’re cursed with the body of a weakling?”

Viktor blinks, perplexed. “But I only intended—”

The King bares his teeth in a snarl, the Queen shaking like a leaf in his arms. 

“Your _intention_  will bring Death upon our house!”

It takes a moment for the revelation to hit, and then Viktor presses his fingers to his mouth, remembers Yuuri’s mouth there instead, Yuuri’s tongue. Yuuri crooning sweet nothings against him, around him, in him. 

“But Death has already come for me,” he says, unfazed by the Queen’s wails. He smiles at the thought of Yuuri in his bed, laughing and beautiful. 

“Many, many times.”

 

* * *

 

Prince Viktor has always been a sickly child.

Just as the royal physicians predicted, he should have died young, alone and unloved.

And he would have, had the god of death brought him to the Underworld as assigned, instead of falling hopelessly, desperately, in love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	19. Greek Mythology / Royalty / Medical, Part 2

When Yuuri returns to the Underworld, his glow of happiness is quickly dampened by the shouts bouncing off the cavern walls. He recognizes the voices, knows all too well the source of the strife. Yuuri exhales, his breath coming out in a wisp. Already, he misses the warmth of Viktor’s bed, of Viktor himself. Misses the simplicity of their love. Shaking his head, he stretches out his hidden wings and takes to the air, soaring across the River Styx, moans of the dead lurching beneath him. 

The voices grow louder as he nears the throne room, guided by the light of unearthly blue-green flames.

“For the last time, Yurochka, you will return to the surface with me—”

“And for the last time, old witch, I’m telling you to  _leave_! It’s more fun down here, way more fun, and Beka said—”

“ _Otabek_  is taking advantage of your naiveté and your  _obvious_  lack of judgement—”

Silently, Yuuri lands next to the throne where the Lord of the Underworld sits, one leg hitched up on the other, watching passively as the mother-son duo engage in their daily spar before him. Lilia’s nostrils are flared, her eyes flashing like daggers, while Yura’s face is twisted in a scowl so fierce that it might have melted stone.

“Are they at it again?” Yuuri asks, wincing when small little Yura unleashes a verbal string of pure, unwashed filth. If mortals could hear their precious deity of nature now.

“Every day without fail,” Otabek says. He flicks a pomegranate from one hand to another, left to right, right to left, a subtle gesture of unease. (After serving the stoic god for centuries, Yuuri has learned to read every move, every tiny action.) “I see you have yet to bring the soul you owe me.”

“He has a name,” Yuuri murmurs, a bristle of indignation running through him, ruffling his feathers. “And you’re changing the subject on purpose.” Across from them, Yura has his hands over his ears now— _lalalala I can’t hear you_ —driving Lilia to start, uncharacteristically, hollering at the top of her voice. “I can’t understand why you haven’t released Yura.”

Otabek’s shoulders roll in a shrug. “There’s nothing for me to release. He snuck down here despite my warnings, and now he’s refusing to leave.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says, brows lifting. “I thought—”

Otabek lets out a grunt. “You and the rest of Mount Olympus.”

“So you don’t return his feelings, then?”

The pomegranate darts about, back and forth.

“I never said that,” Otabek says.

“—you wouldn’t dare!” 

“Oh, you think I won’t do it? Well –  _watch me_.”

Before anyone can react, Yura lunges for the fruit in Otabek’s hand and tears it open, the seeds flashing a furious red in the dim light. It all happens in slow motion after that: Yuuri’s hands flying to his mouth, Otabek’s dark eyes widening almost imperceptibly, Lilia’s fingers reaching out, stretching, her mouth falling open in complete, abject  _horror_ —

The squelch of Yura’s bite echoes throughout the Underworld.

“ _Yurochka_ ,” Lilia shrieks.

As the argument resumes, a hundred times more vehement than before, Yuuri drops a heavy hand on Otabek’s shoulder.

“Given that mortals already think of Yura as a woman free of taint,  _this_ story is sure to be warped beyond recognition.”

Though Otabek sighs, his gaze lingers on Yura, soft and resigned and—Yuuri smiles quietly to himself—just a little bit pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	20. Coffee Shop / Harry Potter / Soulmate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by smartieandnerdy @ tumblr

Oh.

There’s a new move.

Yuuri studies the board, arms folded across his chest. Maneuvers the pieces in his mind and weighs his options. Then, finally, he nods once and gives his command with the resolve of a general on the frontlines.

“Knight to E4.”

Phichit grins at him across the counter. “Still playing your silly game?”

“It’s not silly,” Yuuri huffs, returning to his place beside Phichit and making a great show of rearranging the syrup bottles. “And we’ve started a new game.”

In the corner of Felix Felicis lies a chess set, polished to a sheen and completely untouched. At least, it wasn’t, until Yuuri came back to fill in his usual holiday shift in between his semesters at Hogwarts. As he donned his apron— _May luck be with you_ , yells a tiny Leprechaun, tap-dancing across the front—his gaze fell on the small table in the corner, on the chessboard sitting atop its dust-covered surface.

A pawn had moved up a square.

From then on, well past Christmas and into the new year, Yuuri has been playing wizard’s chess with a mystery opponent. This person has talent, oh yes, and a firm grasp of the intricacies of the game. But he’s also rash and unpredictable, with a penchant for throwing in bold moves that sometimes end in spectacular failure. Moves that never,  _never,_  fail to surprise Yuuri.

The games add cheer to Yuuri’s mood, a healthy dose of pep in his step. He always enjoys his shifts at this little coffee shop in Hogsmeade, but it gets so very busy during the holidays that a game of chess, even just a single move every day, is a welcome respite from the madness of taking orders and darting about tables.

“Yuu~ri,” Phichit says. He folds around Yuuri like a heavy cloak, pressing against him from behind.

Yuuri  _hmms_  at him as he taps his wand on the edge of a cup, shaping the milk into an elaborate snowflake, a whimsical decoration on the otherwise plain surface. When Phichit tucks his chin in the crook of his neck, a group of girls by the counter explode in a fit of giggles.

“I think you should focus on the gift I gave you, instead of some boring chess game.”

Phichit’s fingers prod at the strip attached to the inside of his wrist. Yuuri glances down:

_6242 days; 16 h; 22 min; 48 sec_

“It hasn’t stopped, so I clearly haven’t met my soulmate yet,” Yuuri says, shrugging.

“Well, pay close attention,” Phichit says. Unfurling off Yuuri, he leans his elbows on the counter, lips lifting on one side in a lopsided smile. “I still remember the frenzied look on Guang Hong’s face when he realized, belatedly, that his watch had long stopped.”

“He’s very happy with Leo from what I hear.”

“Sure, but he’ll never know if Leo’s his soulmate now.”

“Does that matter?” Yuuri asks quietly.

Phichit laughs, slapping Yuuri on the shoulder. “No, you twat, it’s just for good fun! Don’t pull a Seung-gil on me now.”

“Hey, where’s the latte I ordered?”

“Coming right up,” Yuuri calls, levitating the cup onto a tray.

Soulmate watches, soulmate countdowns – a silly muggle invention, an attempt to find magic in their magicless lives. Granted, Yuuri is half-muggle, but he doesn’t believe in soulmates. Doesn’t want to believe in them. After fighting— _clawing_  tooth and nail—to prove his worth as a wizard, the very idea that his future is pre-determined by some higher being rankles him sorely.

Phichit tells him he’s veering dangerously close to a Slytherin attitude.

Yuuri thinks he’s just being a realist.

 

* * *

 

He comes in ten minutes to closing time.

Yuuri can’t stop staring as the stranger dusts snow off the fur on his fiery-red uniform. Can’t turn away from the way his clothes show off the trim line of his waist, the way his hair glints silver in the light, the ends of a low ponytail trailing past his shoulder blades.

Yuuri swallows as he approaches the counter, smiling and perfect.

“I’ve never seen you before. Are you new?”

Yuuri grips his apron under the counter, trying hard to control the tremors. “No, but I… I only work evenings.”

“Ah, that explains it. I’ve only had time to stop by in the mornings.” He frowns, hesitating. “I don’t suppose you…” Another pause, longer this time, before he seems to decide against finishing his sentence. Instead, he tilts his head, silver bangs falling across his forehead just so. “Are you still taking orders?”

_From you? God yes._

Yuuri shakes himself, heat rising to his cheeks. “Yes,” he manages. “What would you like?”

“Whatever you recommend,” the stranger says, tugging off his gloves.

Blue. His eyes are a pretty shade of blue, like the clear skies of an idyllic afternoon.

For seven years, Yuuri has had to recite the same lines, the same holiday spiel. On his last and final day at Felix Felicis, with his Hogwarts graduation mere months away—with those blue eyes gazing into his—he cannot remember a bloody word.

“We have a, um, a New Year special that um—”

“That will do,” the stranger says. His smile is blinding.

They exchange money, fingers brushing soft and warm against each other, before the stranger leaves the counter to find a seat.

Turning away, Yuuri sinks into a crouch and presses a hand to his chest, his rabbiting heart. Felix Felicis has had its share of attractive customers, of course, but none as beautiful as this. Doesn’t help, at all, that they’re the only two left in the coffee shop. What on earth is a Durmstrang student doing in this part of the world anyway? What could be so intriguing, so enticing, that he would drop by a nameless little coffee shop in Hogsmeade every morning? And where the hell is Phichit?

“Bloody hell,” says a voice in his ear.

Yuuri almost leaps out of his skin. He whips round to glare at Phichit, who stares back at him on his hands and knees, shiny-eyed and open-mouthed.

“Phichit,” he starts, “You—”

Wordlessly, Phichit grabs his wrist and shoves it in his face.

_6245 days; 18 h; 56 min; 16 sec_

“What about it?” Yuuri sighs.

“It stopped,” Phichit says.

Yuuri blinks. Yanks his wrist up for a second look.

_6245 days; 18 h; 56 min; 16 sec_

“Well,” he swallows thickly, “It’s not like a second passed since I first looked at it…”

“I’m pretty sure a second did pass in the time you talked about a second not passing,” Phichit whispers, deliberately slow. “Maybe five if you count what I just said.”

Together, they turn back to the watch.

_6245 days; 18 h; 56 min; 16 sec_

Then, after an exchange of wild-eyed looks, they inch upward to peer cautiously over the edge of the counter, through the gap between the coffee machine and a display of pastries.

The stranger is standing in the corner, a finger on his mouth and his gaze fixed, piercing and intense, on the polished chess set.

Yuuri’s heart chooses that exact moment to attempt a series of calisthenics.

 _It can’t be_ , he thinks.  _It’s impossible. It’s—_

“Queen to H7.”

“Bloody hell,” Phichit says again.

Maybe, just maybe, this soulmate thing isn’t so ludicrous after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	21. Music Band / Porn Acting / Psychic Connection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by genuine-firefly @ tumblr  
> With art by the lovely and talented ammoniium @ tumblr: https://ammoniium.tumblr.com/post/170306165016/hi-im-new-to-your-blog-and-i-am-loving-all-of

When Phichit asked Yuuri to sign up as an extra for Mirage’s new music video, Yuuri had his reservations. Filming takes place in a night club, so it’s going to be dark and noisy and full of sweaty bodies grinding up against one another. That alone is not a problem. With enough alcohol in his system, Yuuri is up for anything–literally  _anything_ , as he found out when he woke up sans pants on the roof of someone’s house one morning–but this is different, way different. 

He has had a ridiculous crush on Mirage’s lead guitarist for years, and the thought of meeting Viktor, of making a damn fool of himself in front of Viktor, made his stomach churn, his throat close so tight that he couldn’t breathe.

Yet, here he is, standing by the bar, watching the band members mingle among the extras and wondering if Phichit secretly has some form of mind control powers.

“Viktor looks good tonight,” Phichit yells over the music.

“He always looks good,” Yuuri yells back.

Indeed, in the smoke, beneath epileptic-inducing laser beams, Viktor shines like a god among mortals. The guitarist is dressed simple, a black collared shirt and skinny jeans, but even simple turns sensual with Viktor’s touch - buttons left open to bare the soft line of collarbones, jeans slipping just enough to reveal the elastic band of his infamous black briefs.

Yuuri can’t stop staring, either, at the way Viktor’s hair glows silver under the strobe lights, the way Viktor’s hips swing to the pounding bass, the way Viktor effortlessly parts the crowd with his mere presence. 

And then, across the dance floor, Viktor meets Yuuri’s gaze.

It’s penetrating, intense. It’s  _inviting_. Yuuri swallows, a bob of his throat, when that pink bow of a mouth curves up in a smirk.

“Yuuri, Yuuri,” Phichit says, elbow digging into Yuuri’s ribs. “ _He’s coming this way_.”

Yuuri’s breath catches. “No way,” he says.

“Good luck,” Phichit chirps. Before Yuuri can say another word, he vanishes into the throngs of writhing bodies.

Some best friend he is.

Heart thudding, Yuuri whips round to focus on his beer: the white foam on the surface, the yellow that shines gold in the club’s lights, the little bubbles trickling up and up and up.  _Breathe_ , his therapist would say.  _Ground yourself. Sit with your anxiety. Let your thoughts float far, far away…_  

Someone slides into the spot next to him, the scent of vanilla and rain and cigarettes wafting up his nose.  

“Hi,” says Viktor, his voice as smooth as silk.

Yuuri’s flush burns right down to the roots of his hair. Up close, he sees the deep blue of Viktor’s eyes, the shifting warmth. “Hello,” he squeaks, seconds before he curses at his voice for betraying him so easily. 

Viktor, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice. “Can I buy you a drink?” His eyes flicker to Yuuri’s beer. “Can I buy you a  _better_  drink?”

It is then that, for one horrible, sinking moment, a thought strikes Yuuri: this might be one of Phichit’s pranks. The entertainment reporter is not above tricking his own friends, lulling them into such a dream-like state that they miss the mortification rushing toward them before it’s too late. (Seung-gil still hasn’t forgiven Phichit for the fake number he received from his favorite Twice member.)

After all, what other reason would Viktor Nikiforov have to interact with him, the plainest, simplest-looking extra in the entire club?

 _Well_ , thinks Yuuri, jaw clenching.

_Two can play at this game._

“Sure,” Yuuri says, reaching for his ballet persona. Cool and calm; regal, like a prince. He lifts his chin. “For a price.”

Viktor’s smile turns sharp, thrilling straight up Yuuri’s spine. “Oh?” He leans in, eyes glinting, hair falling just so across his forehead. “And what might that be?”

After Yuuri downs his beer in one chug, after he works up the courage to ignore his rabbiting heart, he curls a fist into Viktor’s collar and drags him close. 

“I think you know.”

The noise Viktor makes is low and rough, shooting a bolt of heat straight to Yuuri’s core. He was so sure that this would have turned Viktor away, showed Viktor that he wasn’t one to be trifled with, fan or not. He doesn’t expect Viktor to frame the sides of his face with soft, warm hands. Doesn’t expect Viktor to crush their mouths together, the wet press of teeth and tongue.

Viktor Nikiforov, the lead guitarist of Mirage: beloved and voted People Magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive” three years in a row.  _Viktor Nikiforov_  is kissing him as though the world was collapsing around them.

 _Phichit,_  Yuuri wonders. _What on earth have you put in his drink?_

Viktor chuckles suddenly, and Yuuri feels it roll into his bones. “I assure you, I am fully sober.”

“But…” Yuuri feels Viktor’s hands trail down his body, slow and deliberate, almost reverent. Trembling, he struggles to grasp for the right words, for the logic in this situation - this mad, impossible situation. “Wait, how did you…”  He spots an unfamiliar glint in the corner of his eye, head jerking up in surprise. “Is that a–”

Fingers capture his chin. Tilts him into another kiss, softer, gentler.

“Focus on me,” Viktor croons. “On my mouth.” A kiss to his jaw. “My hands.” Yuuri gasps, pushing up into Viktor as hands press, scorching, into the curves of his ass. 

“My tongue…”

Yuuri’s fingers sink into silver strands, his knees almost giving out when Viktor sucks at his earlobe, the tip of Viktor’s tongue tracing the contours of his ear.

“Viktor,” he says, but Viktor kisses him again, lips persistent, hands bringing their hips together. Yuuri’s blood flares at the feel of Viktor’s eagerness, pushed hot and hard against him. This feels too much like the lead-in to his greatest adolescent fantasies. Of Viktor’s mouth stretched around his width, of Viktor fucking into him, over and over until they fall off the edge together, the world turning a bright, brilliant white. 

_Oh god, I’m going to come in my pants, in a club full of strangers and right in front of Viktor fucking Nikiforov._

“Cut!”

Yuuri lets out a whimper as Viktor pulls away. He doesn’t want Viktor to stop, hates the sudden loss of warmth. As he breathes, heart calming, mind uncloaking, the bass beats return to thrum through his being, the glint in the distance slowly, gradually, takes shape in his vision:

A video camera, square lens gleaming in the darkness.

Anger flashes inside Yuuri. 

_Goddamn it, Phichit._

He’s about to storm toward the camera, give his supposed friend an earful for his nasty– _really_  nasty–trick, but he’s halted mid-stride when fingers wrap around his wrist, yanking him back into a firm chest.

Into a waft of vanilla, rain, and cigarettes.

“You think a lot about this Phichit,” Viktor says, smiling softly. “I can’t help but feel a little envious of him.”

Yuuri swallows, gaze darting to the camera and away from Viktor’s swollen lips, from Viktor’s rumpled hair. “Oh, but, that camera–”

“–is for our music video.” Viktor cocks his head to one side, eyes twinkling. “You  _were_ told that we might interact with the extras, weren’t you?”

Yuuri’s jaw unhinges. In his nervousness, the casting director’s introductory speech had been nothing but a low rumble of sound. “You mean to tell me that was all part of the video?”

“It wasn’t planned, but yes.” Viktor trails a finger down Yuuri’s cheek. “You were just too cute to resist.”

“ _Viktor._ ” A blond boy shoves through the crowd, a scowl on his face. Yuuri recognizes him instantly: Yuri Plisetsky, Mirage’s bass guitarist, known for his riffs and lightning-fast temper. “Debrief in the back.  _Now_.”

Viktor hums as Yuri sweeps off to high-pitched screams. “Seems I’ve gone a little off-script.” He turns back to Yuuri who can only stare at him, wide-eyed. “Are you free tomorrow night? I’d love to take you out to dinner.” A wink. “Your name would be appreciated, too.”

“Um,” says Yuuri, all hints of his earlier bravado now lost in a haze of confusion. “I'm… Yuuri.”

“Yuuuuri,” Viktor says, and Yuuri feels his cheeks turn hot at the slow, careful drawl. “And dinner?”

“Um. Sure.”

“Wonderful,” Viktor says. Brushing a strand of hair behind Yuuri’s ear, he leans in, warm breath gusting across Yuuri’s skin. “Then we can see about you coming for me… in your pants, on my couch, in my bed.”

Yuuri shivers. He barely has time to react before Viktor slides a business card into his hand and slips away, disappearing into the smoke and lasers like a dream fading out in the morning light.

He glances down, the words and numbers swimming on the card.

Not only does he have his idol’s number, but he’s also in Mirage’s music video, making out with said idol for the whole world to see?

This is beyond madness. This is far beyond his wildest dreams. This is, this is…

He pauses.

Wait - but how did Viktor know about Phichit? Or that he was thinking about, well.  _That_?

Something, a familiar presence, brushes tenderly against his mind.

_I’ll explain more when we meet for dinner, my Yuuri._

The card falls as Yuuri’s heart skips, the image of silver and blue and a warm, breathtaking smile flooding through him.

“Deets, Yuuri,” Phichit says, popping up beside him, grabbing at his sleeve. “I saw everything from the other side of the club and I want the deets. Every. Single. Detail.”

Yuuri turns to him slowly, afraid to breathe, to think.

“Where do I even begin…?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> Prompts are from [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge) and unfortunately CLOSED at the moment, while I catch up with the backlog! Thank you for all the requests and your kind patience. <3
> 
> You may also check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	22. Music Band / Porn Acting / Psychic Connection, Part Two

“Hello.”

Yuuri almost whimpers at the sight of Viktor leaning against the door frame, white shirt opened right down to the dip of his striped vest, the golden glint of a sun-shaped pendant hanging over exposed skin. Naked ankles flash as he shifts his weight on white sneakers, Capri pants stretching across long, muscled legs.

If Yuuri were in a clearer state of mind, he might have felt embarrassed–mortified even–that he’s standing before a God in nothing but oversized Totoro-print pajamas.

“Sorry I’m so early,” Viktor says, lips quirking up at the corners. “I just couldn’t wait to see you again.”

“It’s been what, three days?” Phichit quips from the living room.

“ _Phichit_ ,” Yuuri hisses. “Um, Viktor, will you give me, um–” he chokes when Viktor’s eyes rove down his pajamas, suddenly, deeply, hyperaware of the soft fleece on his skin, “–give me two minutes!”

Viktor pouts. “But you look so cu–”

Cheeks heating, Yuuri slams the door shut.

“Yeah, good move,” Phichit says, grinning. “Lock out the biggest crush of your life while he’s complimenting you.”

“Shut up and  _help me_ ,” Yuuri yelps. He races to his room, yanking his pajama shirt over his head. Knocks off his glasses and stumbles into walls and lamps and tables along the way.

They empty Yuuri’s closet, mix and match shirts, pants, jeans in a flurry of movement. Phichit suggests something sexy that will draw Viktor’s gaze and boil his blood with lust. Yuuri wants something less conspicuous, something simple but chic. After much bickering and threats to invite Viktor in, Yuuri finally settles on a blue shirt and cream-colored pants that stop at his ankles. A simple outfit that outlines his slender frame; hugs the curves of his biceps, his hips.

Viktor looks as though a fist has struck him in the gut when Yuuri reopens the door.

“Oh,” he breathes, eyes sparkling.  

“Sorry,” Yuuri says as he steps out, ignoring Phichit’s honeyed  _text me if you’re not coming home tonight, darling!_  “That took a lot longer than two minutes.”  

“Absolutely worth it,” Viktor says.

Yuuri flushes.

 

* * *

 

Crystal chandeliers, renaissance paintings, waiters in tuxedos and gloves.

As the head waiter leads them up a winding, spiral staircase, Yuuri’s stomach sinks into the lush carpet beneath his cheap shoes. Nerves wind him tight, and the sight of so much lavishness, so much decadence, makes him want to bolt like a cornered rabbit. He’s out of place here, and he certainly doesn’t belong by Viktor’s side. Not with people’s stares burning into the nape of his neck, with the whispers and murmurs all around them.

Yuuri trembles, fingers curling in and out of his pants pockets.  

What is he thinking, going on a date with the lead guitarist of Mirage? This is a bad idea, a very bad idea. He never should have called Viktor. Never should have bought into this fantasy. He really ought to go home, change back into his comfortable pajamas, and curl up on the couch with Phichit.

“Yuuri?”

Yuuri startles, eyes wide.

Viktor is watching him while the head waiter stands, back straight, behind a chair he has pulled from a table covered with ivory linen. In the midst of Yuuri’s insecurities, they appear to have entered a private room with glass windows from ceiling to floor, the city skyline glimmering against the dark backdrop of the night.  

Hastily, Yuuri drops onto the seat, cheeks aflame. He accepts the menu from the waiter and whips it up and over his face. Blocks Viktor from view as he studies the dishes, focusing hard on the long, exotic names.

“Yuuri.” Viktor’s voice is tender, soft at the edges. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Yuuri says, far too quickly.

Viktor lets out a contemplative noise but pushes no further. “Do you need help with the menu?”

Yuuri lowers the menu and his eyes meet Viktor’s, glowing a beautiful, rich blue.

“Yes, please,” Yuuri says, flushing.

Viktor’s smile fills him with warmth, and he feels his doubts fade.

If nothing else,  _Viktor_  wants him here. Or he wouldn’t have given Yuuri his number, wouldn’t have taken Yuuri’s call in one ring. Wouldn’t have set a date and time, right then and there.

And isn’t that enough?

They go over the items together, one by one. As Viktor reads off each entrée, Yuuri listens, enraptured. There’s something racy about the way Viktor’s tongue curls around the unfamiliar characters, the way his voice lifts and drops just as it does for Mirage’s songs. 

“ _Poulet á la Moutárd et au Miel_ ,” he croons, gazing up at Yuuri through silver lashes. “ _Brochette d'Agneau a la Greque_.”

Yuuri swallows. “W-What are those…?”

The curve of Viktor’s mouth is sensuous as he leans across the table. Takes Yuuri’s chin in his thumb and forefinger, just as he did in the club that night, just before he captured Yuuri’s lips and stole Yuuri’s soul with his tongue.

“Grilled chicken breast with honey…”

Yuuri shudders as warm breath gusts over his skin.

“Lamb skewers with a Greek citrus sauce.”

A small whine slips from Yuuri’s mouth when Viktor pulls away then, the pad of his thumb brushing over Yuuri’s bottom lip.

“Either of those sound good to you?” he asks after a long, dragged out second. 

“Both,” Yuuri says, too dazed to think. “Both sound good.”

Viktor laughs, sweet and musical.

After making their orders, they talk about Mirage: the band, the songs, the drama that happens behind the scenes. Viktor opens up about his reasons for choosing this career; the joy he felt after writing his first song, the first rush he got from performing on stage, the pride that surged through him when Mirage won its first music award. Yuuri is delighted, both as a fan and as a… well, whatever Viktor thinks he is. He has watched and read every interview, of course, but never has Viktor been this candid, this honest.

“You make it easy,” Viktor says when Yuuri tells him as much.

Again, Yuuri blushes, eyes averted. (God, will he ever stop blushing in front of this man?)

Soon, their dishes arrive, fragrant smells wafting in the air. As they take bites of their food, Yuuri feeling quite pleased with his chicken, Viktor asks about his family, his life. Yuuri shares; finds himself, to his surprise, wanting to share.

He tells Viktor about his family inn. About his mother’s cooking, his father drinking and laughing with patrons, his sister and  _her_  love for Mirage, especially a certain quick-tempered bassist. He tells Viktor, too, about his job as a ballet teacher for children– _because those who can’t do, teach_ , he says with some bitterness _-_ -and, amazingly, the failures that led him there.

“Wow,” Viktor gasps. “You won an apprenticeship at the Prix de Lausanne? Isn’t that one of the most prestigious ballet competitions in the world?”

“ _That’s_  your takeaway?” Yuuri says. “Not my stumbles or falls or my failed auditions after that?”

A beat. Then, Viktor’s hand slips over Yuuri’s, warm and affectionate. “I’d love to see you dance sometime.”

Yuuri nods, swallowing.

They move to the windows after their meal, looking out at the glittering lights and watching the cars roll up and down the streets, slick golden lines of speeding dots.

Yuuri turns to look at Viktor, struck again by the blue of his eyes, the sweet curve of his mouth, the silver in his hair that catches in the light. His beauty is ethereal; inhuman, even. Compared to him, Yuuri is nothing - plain and simple and insignificant.

“Why me?” Yuuri blurts suddenly, heart thudding.

Viktor’s gaze falls on him, molten and intense. “Why not?” he says.

Yuuri doesn’t know what to say to that, so he turns back to the windows, stares at the buildings far down below.

“Yuuri.”

Before Yuuri can react, Viktor’s hands find his hips and tug him close enough to fit their bodies together. Something, a presence, prods and pokes and nudges against his mind.

Oh, he had completely forgotten about that.

“Viktor.” Yuuri shivers as lips brush his skin. “You’re–”

“Only concerned that you think you’re not good enough,” Viktor chides gently. “What can I do to convince you that I like you?” He presses a kiss to Yuuri’s jaw, just below his ear. “That I want to know more about you?”

Yuuri’s breath catches, head lolling against Viktor’s shoulder, the line of his neck bared just enough for Viktor to leave a trail of kisses. “Maybe if you… keep doing what you’re doing?”

Viktor’s soft hum is filled with fondness. “Shall we continue at my place, then?”

Yuuri pauses. “Will you tell me why you can read minds?”

“Gladly.”

“Then yes.”

As Viktor’s smile glows brighter than the skyline outside, Yuuri makes a mental note to send Phichit a text. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> Prompts are from [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge) and unfortunately CLOSED at the moment, while I catch up with the backlog! Thank you for all the requests and your kind patience. <3
> 
> You may also check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	23. Omegaverse / Coffee Shop / Soulmates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon @ tumblr

Viktor makes his declaration barely seconds after stepping through the front door.

“I’m in love.”

Lying on the couch, Yuri shoots him a piercing look through a curtain of hair. “Don’t tell me. You adopted another idiot dog.”

“Makkachin is not an idiot,” Viktor protests. As if on cue, the poodle bounds out of his bedroom and leaps toward him, ears flapping, tongue lolling. Laughing, Viktor returns the enthusiastic greeting by sinking his fingers into the fur and cooing  _who’s a good Makka, who’s a good Makka_ as a pink tongue laps all over his cheeks and mouth.

Yuri shakes his head, flicking his hair back. On his lap, Potya cracks open a single golden eye, before it slowly, gradually, slips shut again. “I don’t see how you can be in love when all you did was cover my shift for a couple of hours.”

“That’s just it!” Viktor strides into the living room and flings his body onto an armchair. Makkachin follows after him to plop down by his feet, tail thumping against the hardwood floor. “You didn’t tell me you were working with the cutest, sweetest, most gorgeous man on the planet!”

Yuri arches an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Yuuri Katsuki.” Viktor sighs, head falling back. “That smile, those eyes, and that round, sumptuous ass… he smelled like fresh grass after an April shower, and I wanted nothing more than to eat him on the counter, right then and there.”

“ _Gross_.” Yuri flings a cushion with such force that it bounces off Viktor’s face and lands on the floor. Makkachin’s ears perk up, his tail working double time. “You  _better_ not have said that alpha crap to him.”

Suddenly, Viktor droops miserably against the armchair like a wilting plant on its last legs. “Well that’s the thing,” he says, mouth tipping downward at the corners. “I never got to say a thing to him because he avoided me the whole time.”  

“He’s pretty shy,” Yuri says, shrugging.

“Not with customers.” Viktor’s face turns dark. “He kept smiling, kept making conversation with them, and they wouldn’t stop  _touching_  him. Brushing their fingers together when he hands them their coffee, holding his hand a little too long when he hands them change…”

“Why do you think so many alphas visit our coffee shop?” Yuri shifts, offering Potya an apologetic glance when the cat’s eyes snap open and narrow into little slits of annoyance. “It’s not for the shitty coffee, that’s for sure.”

Viktor scowls. “It’s not right.”

“And you’re a territorial asshole,” Yuri points out wryly.

“I have every right,” Viktor huffs, arms folding across his chest. “Because he’s also my soulmate.”

Yuri rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “Really? What was his first thought?”

“’ _Oh, that’s not Yuri_.’”

There’s a beat, before Yuri snorts. “Okay, that does sound like him.”

“Yuraaaaa,” Viktor says, Yuri’s hair standing at the long, whining drag of his name. “What should I do? Should I try talking to him? As a customer this time?” He straightens, breath hitching, hands flying to his cheeks. “Could he -  _does he have a different soulmate_?”

Yuri flips his hair out of his eyes. “If I said I’ll talk to him for you, will you leave me alone for the rest of the day?”

Viktor’s heart-mouthed smile is blinding. “You’re my most favorite half-brother, ever!”

“I’m your  _only_  half-brother,” Yuri mutters.

 

* * *

 

To Yuri’s surprise, it’s Yuuri who approaches him first.

The omega is wringing his hands, fingers tangling together and curling in and out of his iron-pressed apron. The only time Yuri has seen Yuuri this anxious was when the manager had called Yuuri into her office, and Yuuri was oh-so-sure that he was about to get fired for fumbling _one_  cup in his entire three-month summer career as a barista.

Turns out, he was getting a bonus for his exceptional performance.

“Spit it out already,” Yuri snaps.

“I think…” Yuuri swallows, apron wrinkling under his hands. “I think Viktor’s my soulmate.”

Yuri busies himself with loading the expresso machine, gaze fixed on the coffee beans. “Oh yeah? What makes you so sure?”

“Well I um… I heard his first thought.” Yuri hears the waver in Yuuri’s voice, the uncertainty. “I  _think_  it’s his first thought?”

“What was it?”

Yuuri hesitates. Then, “’ _I want to butter that ass and lick it clean right on that counter._ ’”

Yuri’s forehead nearly slams into the machine.

“I was so embarrassed I couldn’t look him in the eye for, well, the whole shift, but - but I  _did_  want to talk to him because I do think he’s cute, and he smells nice, and he has the warmest smile, and I, um…” Yuuri trails off into a nervous laugh. “…I wouldn’t have minded  _that_ … maybe after the third date?”

Yuri groans.

He’s going to have to scrub his brain out when he goes home tonight. Bleach it clean, then kick Viktor out so he won’t have any reminders of this horrifically disturbing conversation.

“Will you talk to him for me?” Yuuri asks softly. “Please?”

“I hate you both,” Yuri says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> Prompts are from [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge) and unfortunately CLOSED at the moment, while I catch up with the backlog! Thank you for all the requests and your kind patience. <3
> 
> You may also check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	24. Greek Mythology / Royalty / Medical, Part Three

War.

The Achaean Kings have chosen to go to war.

Viktor stares at the strange man in the mirror. He doesn’t recognize this man, with the heavy breastplate, the greaves, the blood-red of a military tunic. When he turns, the armor glints golden in the candlelight, illuminating the silver of his hair, the blue of his eyes. He noticed the giggles among the female servants when the King presented him to Agamemnon, even the burning stares from the male soldiers.

(“At least you  _look_  like a prince,” his father says, eyes hard as steel. “Now let’s see you fight like one.”)

The training was harsh. Brutal. He’s not as feeble as the royal physicians claimed, all thanks to a certain deity who sneaks him out into the gardens for long, midnight walks, but he  _is_  unfit, having had a sedentary lifestyle for most of his childhood. Even so,  _especially_  so, under the King’s baleful watch from the observation post, Viktor grits his teeth and drags his body through the marches, the drills, the obstacles. Grows into his armor until he looks every bit the warrior his father so desires.

Despite his mother’s wailing protests, Viktor knows it’s a political decision, calculated and well made. War is his chance to prove his worth as the rightful heir to the throne: whether he lives or dies, he will return as a hero who fought for his people and kingdom. A fate that won’t have him dying a natural death in his bed, ridiculed as a sick weakling by philosophers and historians for centuries to come.

From the corner of his eye, he sees the shadows writhe, churning and curling about in black tendrils until they take the shape of a young man, beautiful and soft at the edges.

Speaking of death.

“How do I look?” Viktor asks, turning and spreading his arms.

He expects a laugh, maybe some gentle teasing about his newfound virility.

Instead, Yuuri offers him a weak smile so full of sorrow that Viktor’s heart curdles in his chest.

“My darling,” Viktor says, reaching out, pulling Yuuri into his arms. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t…” Yuuri’s hands curl against Viktor’s chest, trembling. “I cannot save you if you go to war. Hades is willing to turn a blind eye, but Ares… Ares won’t allow it. And I can’t spirit you away if you’re in danger, remove you the way the other gods could—”

Viktor shushes him, wraps his hands round Yuuri’s to still the tremors. “Doesn’t that work better for us?” he murmurs. “In death, we can be together forever.”

“I like your strength, your passion, your vigor for  _life,_ or I would have taken your soul ages ago.” The breath Yuuri huffs is warm on Viktor’s neck. “Eternity is not all it is cut out to be.”

“It is, if it’s with you.”

Yuuri snorts, but doesn’t resist when Viktor tilts his chin up and peppers his face with soft, feathery kisses. “Do you always know what to say?”

“No,” Viktor says against Yuuri’s jaw, hands running down the jut of Yuuri’s hips. It never fails to please him that he, and he alone, is privy to these curves beneath that loose, billowing cloak. “Or my dear father would know exactly how I feel about him.”

Yuuri hums, head tilting as Viktor kisses the column of his neck. “You know who I blame for this mess? Paris. Paris for his self-centeredness, his uncontrollable lust. His stupid, rash abduction.”

“Oh?” Viktor lifts his head, brows arched. How  _angry_  Yuuri must be; the god so rarely speaks ill of anyone, not even of the arrogant Sisyphus, who tricked him and chained him to a rock in Tartarus. “The prophets say it was Aphrodite who promised Helen to him.”

“Aphrodite promised a meeting with Helen, maybe a one-night tryst,” Yuuri grumbles. “Not the poor woman’s undying love.”  

“And the story about the golden apple?”

“They were drunk off Dionysus’s wine,” Yuuri says after a pause. “Even the gods make poor choices when inebriated.”

Viktor grins. “How funny it is to have firsthand knowledge about the gods’ affairs.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes. “You haven’t heard the worst of it.”

Chuckling, Viktor presses a kiss to Yuuri’s hair, to his cheeks. Then another, open-mouthed, to the hollow of Yuuri’s throat, savoring the shudder in response.

“Viktooor,” Yuuri says, a fond reproach. “You’re trying to distract me.”

“Mmhm.” It’s easy, so easy, when Yuuri is so warm and soft and perfect in his arms. He nips lightly at the curve of Yuuri’s ear. “Is it working?”  

Yuuri’s breath stutters. “Maybe,” he says, fingers trailing across the width of Viktor’s shoulders, down the curve of his biceps, his chest. Lingers on Viktor’s waist, the edge of his breastplate. “If you take this hideous metal off.”  

“Gladly.”

As Viktor fumbles with the straps and shucks his armor off in one motion, Yuuri folds back onto the bed, legs spreading, cloak evaporating to reveal smooth skin—inch by agonizing inch—until he is completely, irresistibly, naked.

Viktor’s mouth goes dry.

Always. It always turns out like this. With Viktor initiating, reeling Yuuri in, only for Yuuri to turn the tables, making _him_  gasp and shake with want. 

“Yuuri,” he says, as though the name itself is a reverent prayer. He kneels on the mattress and pushes into the space between Yuuri’s legs. Lowers himself to press Yuuri into sheets, feel the heat of Yuuri’s skin through the fabric of his tunic. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

Yuuri’s laugh is breathless. “I think you make that very clear every time we meet.”

Viktor kisses him, hot and passionate and wet, and Yuuri lets him, fingers slipping into his hair. Viktor’s own hands slide down the pliant body beneath him, follows the curves of pectorals, the dips and rise of chiseled abs. When he pulls away, he finds Yuuri gazing at him with eyes bright as the moon, warm as the fire in the hearth.

“I won’t let you suffer if you fall,” Yuuri says fiercely. “I’ll find you and take the pain away as quickly as I can.”

Something, a feeling, bubbles up inside Viktor.

Thanatos, Mors, Death: the brazen one, merciless and uncompassionate, the god with the iron heart – so say the myths. How wrong they are, how foolish. And how lucky _Viktor_  is. For Yuuri, who is so many other things—love and kindness and beauty—a tangible, physical representation of every saintly virtue on this mortal earth…

…Yuuri is  _his_.

The feeling inside him overflows, spills between his ribs.

“I love you,” Viktor whispers. Watches Yuuri’s eyes grow wide, feels the fingers tighten in his hair.

“I love you, and I cannot wait to spend eternity with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> Prompts are from [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge) and unfortunately CLOSED at the moment, while I catch up with the backlog! Thank you for all the requests and your kind patience. <3
> 
> You may also check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	25. Greek Mythology / Royalty / Medical, Part Four

The campfire crackles golden-orange in the darkness, the only source of warmth and comfort they’ve had in days.

Viktor stares into the flames as he spoons a slop of water and half-cooked meat into his mouth, tongue dry, barely tasting the meal. He’s caked in dirt and grime, blood crusted deep in the creases of his armor, his face, his soul. His muscles feel like lead, heavy and sinking into the soil, screaming each time he shifts his limbs.

Five years. Five long years.

The commanders claimed they have the Trojans on their knees and begging for mercy. Declared, with triumphant cries, that the war will soon end in their favor, all thanks to the courage and skill of the mighty Achilles. But their words are naught but empty promises: the war hasn’t ended, nor has the Archaean army won.

At this point, Viktor just wants _someone_  to win.

There’s a long, drawn-out groan from the tent behind him.

“That one’s a goner,” a soldier says, dropping down by Viktor’s side. His oversized helmet tips past eyes that are dull and far too blank for one so young. The men have dropped all pretense of title and status within the second year; none of that matters on the battlefield, in the face of impending, inevitable death.

Viktor nods toward the tent. “What happened to him?”

“Stabbed right through the gut.” The soldier shrugs. “Matter of time before Hades takes him.”

As if summoned, the shadows against the tent begin to roll and curl, pulling together in a familiar shape that fills Viktor with slow, warm joy.

Viktor tugs out his canteen, makes a great show of drinking to hide his smile. It takes all of his effort not to turn around, not to wrap his arms around the slender frame and bask in the soft gaze that prickles on the nape of his neck.

The men wouldn’t understand. Who would? Any normal person would think him sick for enjoying death, for having his face light up, his heart race, every time another falls and breathes their last.

“Not Hades,” Viktor says, as the shadow–his sweet, beautiful, compassionate lover–glides into the tent, robes trailing behind him. As the pained noises fade into nothingness, and the soldier removes his helmet in a solemn gesture of respect.

“The oracles call him Thanatos.”

 

* * *

 

Only once does Viktor find a chance to hold Yuuri.

The air is stained with a musty, metallic smell, the land littered with bodies as far as the eye can see.

Viktor has fallen from an arrow to his ankle, though the blinding pain of his cracked bone doesn’t strike until the adrenaline wears out, until the redness in his frenzied, battle-driven vision clears away. Comrades and enemies flank his sides on the ground, blood bubbling out of open wounds, looking for all the world like they were sleeping.  

For a while, Viktor lies there with his eyes closed, too worn to move, too worn to care. It’s when he feels a hand curve around his cheek, feels lips press against his, that he finally, instinctively, musters his energy to reach out. Draw the lithe figure into his arms and bury his nose in the soft fabric, in the comforting scent of ash and poppies.

“Come to take me away?”

“Silly,” Yuuri chides but doesn’t pull away. “You’re not dead.”

“I wish I was,” Viktor says.  

There’s a pause, long and lingering. Then, Yuuri kisses him again, a feathery brush. “Don’t say that,” he says, his voice tinged with sadness.

Viktor looks up at him then, soaks in the gentle furrow of his eyebrows, the warmth in his eyes. The way his lips tremble so sweetly, so enticingly. He pulls Yuuri down for another kiss, hotter, deeper, longer, breath mingling with whispers of  _sorry_  and  _I miss you_  and  _I love you so much_.

Yuuri sighs. “Viktor…” Fingers curl round Viktor’s neck, soft and tender. For one single, aching moment, it almost feels as though they were in his bed again, naked limbs tangled together, Yuuri’s head pillowed on his chest. Warm and solid and safe.  

“I want to stay but I… I have to go.”

Viktor bites out a huff of laughter, the white burst of pain blossoming up his leg a sudden, stark reminder of where they are, what he’s surrounded with. “We’ve given you a lot to do, haven’t we?”

Yuuri’s touch lingers on Viktor’s cheek, before he leaves to collect the many souls scattered across the plains.

Every soul but Viktor’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> Prompts are from [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge) and unfortunately CLOSED at the moment, while I catch up with the backlog! Thank you for all the requests and your kind patience. <3
> 
> You may also check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	26. Mafia / Corporate / Arranged Marriage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon @ tumblr

The first time Yuuri meets Viktor, he’s six years old.

It’s at a party in the Nikiforov family’s luxurious mansion with groups of adults milling about, sipping bubbly liquid from thin glasses and nibbling at little finger-foods that look too colorful for consumption. Yuuri spends most of the party with his fist curled tightly into the edge of Mari’s sleeve, overwhelmed by the noise and crowds and raucous laughter.  

It’s when their parents decide to have a “grown-up talk” with other adults that Yuuri and Mari are ushered to a massive room that looks like a scene from every child’s fantasy, the open space filled with an array of toys, books, and even a mini jungle gym. Without hesitation, Mari makes a beeline for the bookshelf in the corner, leaving Yuuri alone and frozen by the door, unsure of what to do with himself.

That’s when Viktor approaches him. Sweeps up to him wide-eyed and heart-mouthed, his hair gleaming silver in the lights of the hanging chandelier.  

“Hi, I’m Viktor! What’s your name?”

Yuuri remembers being tongue-tied; Viktor is the prettiest thing he has ever seen.

“I'm… I’m Yuuri,” he says shyly, trying hard to recall his English lessons.

“That’s a pretty name,” Viktor says, seemingly unaware of Yuuri’s blush. “Wanna play with me, Yuuri?”

Yuuri glances at Mari, whose nose is buried deep in the pages of a comic book. 

“Okay,” he concedes.

Viktor’s smile is radiant.

 

* * *

 

The second time Yuuri meets Viktor, he’s sixteen.

He’s privy to his family’s business dealings now, the way their global chain of hotels and inns supplies the  _yakuza_  with funds, customers, and the occasional catering for weddings and birthday celebrations. Mari decides to return to Japan and manage the Hasetsu inn, claiming that it’d feel weird to stray too far from home.

With the first-born declining her birth rights, the role of heir apparent thus falls squarely on Yuuri’s all-too-narrow shoulders.

President and CEO to the powerful Katsuki Group.  

At his first conference, Yuuri throws up. Had just enough sense to excuse himself before he bolted for the nearest bathroom, slammed past the cubicle door, and  _retched_ , fingers digging into the cold, white porcelain.

He’s not ready.

He will  _never_  be ready.

What does he know about business, much less the ways of the mafia? How can he possibly handle decisions that will affect the livelihood of so many? Or decisions where people’s lives might hang in the balance? It’s too much responsibility; too sudden, too soon.

He can’t imagine sinking any lower than he already has–his head bowed over a toilet bowl, chest heaving, hair matted and clinging to his cheeks–until a silk pocket square appears in his line of sight, embroidered with elegant streaks of ancient Japanese calligraphy.  

“If it will help,” says a silvery voice.

Yuuri whips round, heart sinking to his stomach.

Viktor is as pretty as ever, the charcoal grey suit fitting perfectly, tailored to show off the width of his shoulders, the trim line of his waist. His eyes are warm and bright, his hair long and silver and bound loosely to the side of his neck.

Of course, he’d humiliate himself thoroughly in front of his biggest childhood crush.

“I, I’m fine,” Yuuri says, pink staining his cheeks, gaze averted. “I–”

He stiffens when Viktor takes his hand and slips in the pocket square, fingers brushing against his palm.

“It’s always scary the first time,” Viktor says softly.

“Oh.” Yuuri grips the pocket square. Feels his heart trip, and fall, into the depths of Viktor’s ocean-blue eyes. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Viktor says.

They leave the bathroom together, walking side by side, Yuuri feeling calmed by Viktor’s steady presence. For the rest of the conference, as he listens to his father’s proposals, to the countless negotiations that follow, he finds solace in Viktor’s smile from across the table. 

In the crumpled silk deep inside his pocket.

 

* * *

 

The third time Yuuri meets Viktor, he’s twenty-six.

He’s meeting the head of the Nikiforov Corporation to settle on a joint venture with the Katsuki Group. His father wants him to take the lead because it’s his idea and his alone.

Yuuri wonders why it hasn’t already been done. A conglomerate with a monopoly on the hotel industry and an international corporation that runs the world’s largest protection agency: it’s a match made in heaven. They can offer individualized protection services in every five-star hotel across the globe, from paparazzi, stalkers, terrorists, even hired hitmen.

The  _oyabun_  has given his stamp of approval; all they need now is a signed agreement with the Nikiforov Corporation, a small but strong ally of the Russian mafia.

Mikail Nikiforov is an older, distinguished version of Viktor, his once-silver hair now dulled into shades of grey. Yuuri feels the man’s stare as he reads off his prepared notes, his voice trembling at every fifth word. But he’s reassured by the bobs of his father’s head beside him, grows more confident when he sees Mikail’s eyebrows rise with interest.

“An excellent proposal,” Mikail says after Yuuri is finished. His accent is thick, far thicker than Viktor’s. “And I have always respected your family’s diligence and honest work.”

“So…” Yuuri licks his lips. “So you agree? With the numbers as well?”

Mikail taps his chin in a manner that’s oddly familiar. “I do not see why not.”

“Oh, thank you so much!” Yuuri flushes as Mikail’s lips curl in amusement. “I mean, um, that is, I am delighted, and we, uh…”

“ _Katana_ ,” Yuuri’s father says under his breath.

Right.  _Right._

Yuuri breathes, willing his heart to calm. “As a gesture of friendship and our new alliance,” he says, bending to retrieve the gift from under his seat, “We present to you a customized Japanese sword, forged by a blacksmith whose family served the Emperor many centuries ago.”

“Ahh,  _spasibo_.” Mikail accepts the sword with a smile, running his fingers down the intricate designs on the handle. “Unfortunately, I have come empty-handed…”

“Not to worry,” Yuuri’s father says. “It is only Japanese custom.”

Mikail hums, a contemplative sound. “No, no, this will not do. I may perhaps have one gift for you. My greatest and most valuable treasure.” He lays the sword carefully across the table before pulling out a cellphone from his shirt pocket. “If I may make a phone call?”

“Of course,” Yuuri and his father reply in unison.

From every other Russian Yuuri has met, their language seems coarse and guttural. But something about the Nikiforovs makes the language sound soft, affectionate, almost musical. Even the way Yuuri’s name rolls off Mikhail’s tongue seems so fond that Yuuri’s face warms with every mention. (“They are snake charmers,” his father tells him. “They know how to handle even the most venomous serpents.”)

“He is coming,” Mikail announces suddenly, sliding his cellphone back into his pocket. “Shall we sign off these papers before he arrives?”

‘He’, Yuuri finds out minutes later, is none other than Viktor Nikiforov.

Yuuri isn’t aware of Viktor’s presence, not until the familiar scents of sandalwood and lavender wash over his senses, strong and earthy and heady. He turns then to see that Viktor’s hair is short now, silver strands shorn down to the nape of his neck, bangs falling past his eyes just so. The grey suit has been replaced by a vest, perfectly outlining the lithe frame, while the belt on his waist–

Yuuri blinks.

Are those gun holsters on his waist?

“You’re wearing my pocket square,” Viktor muses.

Yuuri turns several shades of red, a hand lifting to his jacket pocket. He had forgotten about that; it’s pure instinct now, the way he reaches for the silk piece in his accessory drawer. “It comforts me to have it,” he murmurs.

“Ah,” says Viktor, sounding incredibly pleased.

“Yuuri, Toshiya,” Mikail starts. “As a gesture of friendship from the Nikiforov Corporation…” He spreads his arms for a dramatic pause while Viktor takes his place by his side.

“…I offer you my son and heir.”

Yuuri’s eyes widen to the size of dinner plates.

“We are never safe in our work, are we?” Mikail continues into the stunned silence. “There are enemies, always enemies. But Viktor here,” he claps a hand on Viktor’s shoulder, “He is now a fully trained protection agent, well-versed in  _systema, jiu-jitsu, krav maga_ , and  _aikido_. He will protect you from your enemies and work with you on the joint venture. A win-win, yes?” A beat, followed by a wink. “And I believe he is also quite taken with you, Yuuri.”

Viktor smiles, and Yuuri’s heart thuds against his ribs. “Very much so.”

“Then it is settled!” Mikail declares before Yuuri can get a word in edgewise. “I look forward to this joint venture, my comrades!”

“Well done, Yuu-chan,” Yuuri’s father says in their native language as the Russian father-son duo exchange hugs and farewells. “Your mother will be delighted; she always liked Viktor.”

 _Wait_ , thinks Yuuri, his mind racing wild and unrestrained.

_Is this a joint venture, or a well-disguised marriage arrangement???_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **NOTES:**  
>  -Oyabun, 親分: Boss of the yakuza.   
> -Yuuri’s family are not exactly part of the yakuza, but serve as an allied corporation known as kigyoshatei, 企業舎弟. 
> 
> \---
> 
> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> Prompts are from [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge) and unfortunately CLOSED at the moment, while I catch up with the backlog! Thank you for all the requests and your kind patience. <3
> 
> You may also check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	27. Omegaverse / Prison / Vampires

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by sumi-ink-ninja @ tumblr / WarriorNun @ AO3

Yuuri’s shoulder cracks against hard stone and he realizes, somewhat belatedly, that the burly Lycan has flung him into a cell.

He’s not sure what could have driven the werewolf to abduct him during recreation hour. Cautious about mixing with the other inmates, he spends the hour in a corner of the yard, hidden and out of sight. The last thing he needs is for some aggressive alpha to sniff out his scent, or worse, the blood that runs through his veins–

“Fallen.”

Yuuri stiffens in place.

Before him, a young man slips out of the shadows, tall and pale. Moonlight catches in his silver hair, falls across sharp cheek bones and an even sharper smile. While Yuuri’s jumpsuit is hideously rumpled and one size too large, the stranger’s well-pressed uniform fits his trim frame as though it was tailored just for him. When he speaks again, his voice is as smooth as velvet, the corners of his mouth curving just enough to reveal white, pointed teeth.

“You are a Fallen, are you not?”

Yuuri shakes his head as he scrambles to his feet. “No,” he says, heart rabbiting ferociously against his chest; the prison cell reeks of alpha dominance. “You must be mistaken.”

“But you have such a _lovely_  smell. One I don’t recognize…” The stranger reaches out, and Yuuri hastily, instinctively, shuffles backwards, squeaking when he bumps into the Lycan standing behind him. “I’m just curious to know what a Fallen is doing in a place like this,” the stranger finishes with a chuckle, hand falling back to his side. “Surely the mortal world itself is punishment enough.”

Yuuri remembers the sound of his distant screams, the feel of the blade when it sliced through muscle and bone. On his shoulders, a familiar ache blossoms, spreads down his arms, his fingers.

Teeth clenching, Yuuri grabs at the edge of his sleeves, digs his nails into skin. “I’m not a Fallen. And,” he lifts his chin, “I killed an Incubus who tried to rape my sister.”

“Ah,” the stranger says, face soft. “A life sentence for protecting your sister. How undeserving, how  _unjust_.”

The Lycan makes a noise between a grunt and a snort.

Yuuri swallows. “What are you in for?” he asks, unsure of what else to say.

“Ya kiddin’ me?” the werewolf says, a deep, scratchy growl. “How d'ya not know  _the_  Viktor Nikiforov–”

He stops when the stranger–Viktor–holds up a hand, the corners of too-blue eyes crinkling in a smirk.

“Far too many to count, my pretty one.”

Heat rises to Yuuri’s cheeks. Oh no. No, no, no. Not this one. Not even gut-wrenching loneliness is justification enough to fall for this one: a prisoner, a sinner - an alpha vampire. There’s no mistaking the pale skin, the fangs, the metallic tinge to his musky, provocative scent.

“What do you want from me?” Yuuri mutters, gaze averted.

Viktor drifts closer. Circles round him, hips swinging, a panther on the prowl. “You say you’re not a Fallen–”

“I’m not,” Yuuri agrees a little too quickly.

“So you’ve said,” Viktor murmurs. “I do, however…” His nostrils flare delicately as he inhales. “…recognize the scent of an omega.” He smiles knowingly when Yuuri gives the barest of flinches. “And what I’d like to offer you, dear one, is protection.”

Protection.

Yuuri takes in Viktor’s pheromones lingering in the air, the hulking figure of the Lycan behind him. It’s a tempting offer. He’s getting dangerously close to his heat, and he has heard of the violence perpetuated on omega inmates - violence that is ignored and dismissed by the prison guards. A strong alpha would surely ward away even the most persistent pursuers, and Viktor has an overwhelming vibe of power and death.

Yet Yuuri couldn’t possibly be the only omega in this entire prison.

So, why him?

“What do you want from  _me_?” Yuuri says again.  

Viktor hums and tilts his head, the tip of his forefinger tapping at his chin. “There are rumors that the blood of a Fallen can enhance one’s abilities far beyond their limits. What I want you, you ask?” He leans in, hair glinting silver as it falls, eyes going dark and heavy-lidded. 

“Blood, in exchange for protection.”

Yuuri’s breath catches in his throat. He refuses to notice the penetrating blue of that gaze, the way it makes something hot and molten curl up his spine. “I’m not a–”

“–Fallen, yes, you’ve made that quite clear.” Yuuri squashes the disappointment that surfaces when the vampire pulls away. “That was my original intention: to keep you if you were a Fallen; to let you go if I were mistaken. But now that I’ve had a taste of your alluring fragrance, well.” Viktor licks his lips. “Fallen or not, I would  _hate_  for another alpha to claim you first.”

It takes a moment for Yuuri to process the words; he can’t stop staring at the pink flick of Viktor’s tongue as it sweeps across soft lips. “Wait. You can’t mean…”

“For your safety, dear one,” Viktor says silkily, holding out an upturned palm. “Do we have a deal?”

Yuuri blinks, slow and dazed. Barely a month into his worst nightmare, and some alpha he just met–a creature of the dark, no less–is offering to scent him. There has to be something lurking behind that charming exterior, something ominous, cruel. The vampire must have seen through Yuuri’s lies, wants to keep Yuuri by his side for no other reason than to expose Yuuri’s deceit.

If that’s the case, then the least Yuuri could do is lay out as many obstacles as he could for Viktor.

He inhales and straightens, face hardening, arms folding across his chest. “On several conditions.”

Viktor’s brows rise into his hair while the Lycan lets out a hiss of amusement.

“First, you will address me as Yuuri. Not ‘pretty one’, or 'dear one’, or some other term of endearment.  _Yuuri_.”

There’s a beat. Then, slowly, gradually, a smile blooms, lighting up Viktor’s features as his mouth arcs into the shape of a heart.

“As you wish, Yuu~ri,” he says, his voice low, the first syllable dragging across his tongue in a way that makes Yuuri’s knees go weak. “Please, tell me what else you’d like.”

And Yuuri does. Firmly and thoroughly.

Not at all savoring the way Viktor looks at him like he holds the sun and the moon and the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> Prompts are from [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge) and unfortunately CLOSED at the moment, while I catch up with the backlog! Thank you for all the requests and your kind patience. <3
> 
> You may also check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	28. Accidental Marriage / Witchcraft / Coffee Shop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by crimsonanonym @ tumblr

“I hear you, uh… do the you-know-what?”

Yuuri slides the magazine off his face, eyes shifting blearily to the man leaning across the counter. Hardly anyone enters the café at this time of the day. Judging by the knotted brows and clenched jaw, though, this customer isn’t here for coffee. (“No one  _ever_  comes in for your shitty coffee,” Yura once said.) If Yuuri were brutally honest, he would tell the man that saying “you-know-what” in a loud stage-whisper only makes an illegal act even more conspicuous.  

Sighing, Yuuri straightens and tosses the magazine to the side. “If you mean ‘magic’–” the other man whips his head about, as if the cops have just burst out from under the tables “–then yes. How may I help you?”

“Are you sure we should talk in the open?” the man hisses.  

Yuuri glances round the empty café. “Quite sure.”

“Fine, it’s  _your_ head on the line. So anyway, I have a twin sister and I–”

“Phichit’s the one you want for love potions,” Yuuri cuts in. 

The man splutters, turning several shades of red. “Who said anything about love potions!?”

“Just making that clear,” Yuuri says. “Go on.”

As the man rambles on about his sister and her many suitors, Yuuri feels his mind drift. 

Business has been depressingly slow. It usually is in the spring months, when the sun has returned, the flowers are blooming again, and people aren’t morose and desperate enough to consider witchcraft - that one last ditch attempt to salvage the pieces of their lives that have otherwise been destroyed beyond recognition.   

“–and then she tells  _me_  to butt out of her life, and the bastard _laughs in my face_ –”

Yuuri exhales a rush of breath. 

Or, the pieces they _perceive_ to be ruined. 

“What are you considering?” he interjects before the customer takes all day with his complaints. “A charm that will keep your sister’s suitors at bay, a spell that will exact revenge, or a potion that will keep your sister devoted to you and only you?”

The man pauses, lips pursing together in a frown. “… they all sound pretty good.”

As Phichit would say:  _cha-ching_.

Yuuri flashes a lopsided grin. “In that case…”

The doorbell jingles, a light, distant sound. 

Yuuri turns and is instantly, suddenly, dumbstruck. The newcomer is beautiful, from the silver of his hair that catches in the lights and the heart-shaped curve of his pink bow lips, to the way his grey coat hugs the width of his shoulders, the line of his trim waist. He moves like he’s dancing, gliding to the counter with feet as light as air.  

“Hello,” he says, soft and silvery. 

“Hi,” Yuuri says, pink dusting his cheeks. 

“Hey,” protests guy-who’s-in-love-with-his-sister. “I was here first!”

“I wonder if you remember a swan that you rescued two months ago,” the newcomer continues, unfazed by the other man’s glower. “One that was caught in a bear trap in the forest." 

Yuuri blinks. 

He does remember the swan, yes; it’s not often that he comes across an animal in his search for potion ingredients. The swan was a gorgeous creature, full of thick, heavy plumage that glowed silver in the dark forest. Yuuri remembers the way it gazed up at him with bright eyes as he released its foot from the trap, the way it let out a soft sound when Yuuri pressed a kiss of reassurance on the crown of its head. 

But why is this stranger asking about that swan? 

"Is it okay?” Yuuri asks, frowning. “I wasn’t sure if I should have left it alone…”

The newcomer chuckles. “It’s fine. I’m fine.” He lays a hand on Yuuri’s, soft and warm. “And I’m yours now. Always and forever.”

Yuuri’s eyes grow wide. The silver hair, the grey coat, the blue eyes–oh, so impossibly blue–that shine bright with tender affection. 

Just as it had two months ago. 

“How?” Yuuri murmurs. “How did you-”

“We have plenty of time for that later,” says the swan-turned-human. “Why don’t we start with names first?” He smiles, the pad of his thumb stroking circles on Yuuri’s skin. “I’m Viktor.”

Yuuri breathes. “Yuuri.”

“He- _llo_?” snaps the customer. 

 

* * *

 

1920s. The Roarin’ Twenties. The Prohibition era.

Stories tell of a time when alcohol was banned, when bootlegging and speakeasies began, when the mafia grew in power and extravagant parties were thrown.

What historians never captured was the ban of something less talked about, something much lesser known. 

People fear the unknown, and the government was terrified of magic. 

As with alcohol, magic slipped into the shadows, the underbelly of civilized society. Only those privy to its secrets were well-aware of its existence, hidden in bookstores, detective agencies, a little coffee shop tucked in the corner of a quiet street. Under people’s noses, magic continued to thrive, grow, even flourish, bringing in an increasing number of raw talents into its fold. 

One such talent was Yuuri Katsuki.

And his story begins with a swan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> Prompts are from [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge) and unfortunately CLOSED at the moment, while I catch up with the backlog! Thank you for all the requests and your kind patience. <3
> 
> You may also check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	29. Time Travel / Meta / Shingeki no Kyojin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon @ tumblr

When Viktor slips through the door, Yuuri is still in full uniform. His canisters sit on the floor, but he has chosen, prudently, to keep his blades at his hip, polished sheathes glinting silver in the darkness. Moonlight spills over him from a small window as he sleeps, lashes dark against his cheeks, knees curled into his chest - soft and innocent and so, so beautiful.

Viktor’s chest aches.

Noiselessly, he crosses the small gap between the door and the makeshift mattress. Slides his body against Yuuri’s, marveling at the instant spring and coil of muscles that bunch under his hands, ready for combat.

“Vik– Commander,” Yuuri gasps, suddenly, instinctively, awake. “Are we under attack? Are we–”

Viktor hushes him. “We’re fine. All is well.” He presses a kiss on Yuuri’s neck, long and lingering. “And what have I told you about calling me ‘Commander’ behind closed doors?”

“Oh,” Yuuri says, and Viktor savors the warmth of Yuuri’s flush beneath his lips, the shiver that runs under Yuuri’s skin. “Is this…” His breath catches when Viktor’s fingers caress the hard planes of his stomach, dipping down, down, down to his belt. “Is this really a good time…?”

“Is there ever a good time?” Viktor murmurs.

Yuuri barely has time to utter a trembling _no_  before Viktor crushes their mouths together.

For the next few moments–for the rest of eternity–Viktor wants to live and breathe Yuuri. Nothing  _but_  Yuuri.

Because Viktor is in hell.

A strange, nightmarish reality that is slowly but surely driving him to the brink of insanity.

He has to had to live out the same  _month_ for god knows how long. Of Titans invading, of his men’s dying screams, of Yuuri, his beautiful, brave Yuuri, bleeding out in his arms.  

Again, and again, and again.

Viktor has tried everything. Called for reinforcements, kept Yuuri by his side, asked Yurio to watch over Yuuri on his behalf. Even flung himself off the battlements, wishing, _hoping_ , for merciful darkness to claim him and take him away from this madness.

But he returns, always, to the same place, the same time. Alive, unharmed, and just a little more cracked at the edges.

Again, and again, and again.

Viktor isn’t sure what crime he has committed to deserve such a fate. What could he have done that was so heinous, so unforgivable, that he has been forced to watch his love–his life–fall in ways that have seared deep into Viktor’s mind. Forced to hear the barest whisper of  _I love you_ above the howls of pain around them, to taste blood and fury and sheer, utter, helplessness in his mouth as the light in brown eyes fade out of reach.

So now he does what he can to treasure every minute, every  _second_ , with Yuuri - up until Yuuri draws his very last breath.

Again, and again, and again.

“God, I love you,” Yuuri sighs beneath him.

Something inside Viktor snaps.

A deep shudder wracks through his being, slams against his ribs and rips a whine from his throat. He feels Yuuri’s palms frame his face, swipe at the wetness on his cheeks. Hears Yuuri’s tender words of  _what’s wrong, Viktor, Vitya, you’re scaring me - please, tell me what’s wrong._

“Don’t leave me,” Viktor hears himself say. “ _Don’t leave me_.”

“I’m here,” Yuuri whispers, fingers carding into his hair, stroking his cheeks. “I’ll always be here.”

_No._

_No, you won’t._

Viktor nuzzles into Yuuri’s neck, feels Yuuri’s breath catch as he shifts, pressing in, further, deeper.

“I love you too,” he says.

Again, and again, and again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> Prompts are from [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge) and unfortunately CLOSED at the moment, while I catch up with the backlog! Thank you for all the requests and your kind patience. <3
> 
> You may also check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	30. Urban Fantasy / Mythology / Knights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by sarl438 @ tumblr  
> With art by the amazing zephyrine-gale @ tumblr: http://zephyrine-gale.tumblr.com/post/173138898904/commissioned-by-sarl438-for-dreaming-fireflies

Viktor accepts the flute of champagne from the waitress, barely registering her flustered tittering. He gives her the usual flick-and-wink, of course; far be it for the Legendary Hero to be dismissive with his fans. But his heart is not in it, not when his protégé is about to begin his final examination to be a full-fledged Pantheon Knight.

Inhaling, he straightens his cuffs with his free hand, eyes trained on the green landscape down below. The training committee has chosen a jungle terrain this year, fraught with wild animals, carnivorous plants, and every venom known to man. One single mistake could result in instant failure.

Assuming another trainee doesn’t take out his protégé first.

Viktor wonders if Yakov’s nerves were ever as frayed as his.

“Can it be?” drawls a voice, deep and low in his ear. “The great Viktor Nikiforov is…  _nervous_?”

Viktor’s mouth curves above the edge of his champagne flute. “Chris,” he says as the blond joins him by the windows - giant glass panels that stretch from ceiling to carpeted floor. “You made it.”

“Your first trainee,” Christophe says, raising his glass. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He’s wearing a jacket and a white shirt unbuttoned just enough to expose the hollow of his throat, soft and enticing. “That, and because your boy looks  _fabulous_  in that exotic armor of his.”

“Mm, that he does.”

There’s a sudden crackle, seconds before a face appears, large and pixelated across the top of the windows. As the resolution improves, Viktor recognizes the impish features instantly: Phichit Chulanont, Pantheon Knight and host for this year’s examinations. Phichit’s bright voice thunders through the rooftop lounge, blasting from speakers at every corner of the room.

“ _Welcome, one and all, to the final round of the 42nd annual Pantheon Knight Trials. Only the best and the brightest make it to this stage, and boy, have we got some interesting trainees for you today, folks! Before I get down to introducing our main players for this afternoon, why don’t I begin with a brief explanation of the rules?_ ”

As Phichit cheerily details the objective of this round– _a no-holds-barred fight until three trainees are left standing-_ -Viktor tips his head, downing his champagne with one swing. He’s wound up tight, and he isn’t sure why. He knows his protégé would make a brilliant knight; he chose to become the man’s mentor for that very reason.

There may have been other reasons, but really, the knight thing was the main one.

“Here.” Christophe plucks out Viktor’s empty champagne flute and replaces it with a filled glass. “Keep ‘em coming,” he calls to the same waitress, who nods vigorously, face turning a bright shade of red.

“Thanks,” Viktor chuckles.

“Hey, whatever it takes,” Christophe says, flashing a lopsided grin.

Phichit, meanwhile, moves on to the trainees. As usual, they come from all over the world, from every faith, religion, spiritual belief. It’s as though the Gods themselves wanted to pit their powers against each other, to see how their abilities fared in the frail, destructible bodies of their most avid worshippers. 

The twisted bastards. 

“– _and an absolute fan favorite–”_ Viktor blinks, snapping out of his reverie. “ _–Yuuuri Pliiisetskyyy_!”

The image of a petite blond splashes across the windows, his otherwise delicate features twisted in a scowl. Covered head to toe in heavy armor, his eyes glow an unearthly green as he rests a giant battle axe on his shoulder.

“ _Don’t underestimate Yuri because of his size. Fusing with Perun, the Slavic God of Thunder, this quick-tempered trainee is one electrifying competitor_!”

Christophe hums. “That’s Yakov’s kid, isn’t it?”

Viktor doesn’t respond; his heart is hammering in his ears.

“ _Last, but certainly not least, hailing from the mysterious regions of the Far East, we have the ever-surprising, ever-rising_ …”

His protégé appears on the panels, dressed in his country’s military armor and glowing a bright crimson gold. The camera drone captures him perfectly, and Viktor is struck–again; always–at the way his hair falls across his bandanna, the way his jaw clenches in a hard line, the way his eyes singe Viktor’s insides, hot and molten.

“… _Yuuuri Kaaatsuki_!”

“Red is his color,” Christophe quips over Phichit’s enthusiastic pre-amble. 

“ _Trained by our very own champion of heroes, Viktor Nikiforov, Yuuri fuses with the Shinto Goddess, Amaterasu, and fights with the strength and vivacity worthy of a thousand suns_!”

“I prefer him in blue,” Viktor says absently.

“ _At the sound of the gong, the final round will begin, and our lovely trainees are then free to roam. For those interested, don’t forget to place your bets at the betting table. I also want to remind everyone that this is NOT a fight to death; I’m pretty sure none of our Gods would approve of that, would they?_ ” A beat, then, “ _Well, maybe those ruling the Underworld_.” Scattered laughter fills the lounge. “ _Anyway, I’d like to take these last few minutes to thank the medical teams on standby_ …”

The images shift; every trainee is now projected against the windows, their faces drawn with determination. Yuuri has his shield up, the ink drawing of a sun emblazoned across the front. Round his right wrist, flaming beads circle in constant movement, glinting gold in the sunlight. 

(“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” Yuuri says fiercely despite Viktor’s repeated objections. “Not unless I have to.”)

Viktor feels his heart swell with affection.

“– _all right, folks, we’re down to the wire now, at three seconds-_ -”

On screen, Yuuri bends his knees, brows furrowing.

“– _two-_ -”

Viktor’s fingers curl tightly round the curve of his glass.

“– _one-_ -”

The gong strikes, and Yuuri springs forward, darting through the foliage with such nimbleness that Christophe lets out a soft whistle.

Viktor exhales.

And so it begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> Prompts are from [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge) and unfortunately CLOSED at the moment, while I catch up with the backlog! Thank you for all the requests and your kind patience. <3
> 
> You may also check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	31. Android / Futuristic / Fairytale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by infinitehearts @ tumblr

Yuuri knew Viktor would appear.

Viktor always appears when he’s sad and alone.

Ever since Yuuri called the Make A Wish hotline on a complete whim, Viktor has become a stable presence in his life.

Phichit once asked, with some suspicion, what Viktor was. It’s understandable, really, given their neighborhood. District 12 of New Earth is the garbage dump of humanity’s discarded races, some of whom have good reason to be there. Others, like Yuuri and Phichit, Leo and Guang Hong, simply had a bad deal of hand from Fate. Now, barely surviving with scraps they find on the streets, the last thing they need is to be, as Phichit puts it, “hoodwinked by some conman with a pretty face.”

No, Yuuri doesn’t know what Viktor is.

And Yuuri doesn’t care.

Calling himself a “fairy godmother of the future”, Viktor has granted so many of his wishes, ranging from a companion in the form of an adorable poodle with the largest, doe-like eyes, all the way to sending him to the Royal Yuletide Ball.

So when Yuuri feels strong arms draw him into a familiar embrace, he finally allows the tears to fall. Allows his grief, his anguish, to pour from the depths of his well-worn soul. 

If he even had a soul.  

“I’m sorry,” Viktor murmurs, his breath warm and loving against Yuuri’s neck. “I am so sorry about Vicchan, Yuuri.”

Yuuri shakes his head, the words catching, stuttering, in his throat. “I-It’s not your fault. If I hadn’t… if I hadn’t gone to the royal ball…”

Viktor’s hum reverberates through Yuuri’s being. “No,” he says, arms tightening round Yuuri. “No, you deserved to be there, and no one could have predicted Vicchan’s escape.”

“But I could’ve stopped him.” Yuuri exhales shakily. There’s a sharp twinge in the back of his chest as his fingers dig into Viktor’s burnt red jacket, the grimy walls of his apartment shifting and swimming in his vision. It hurts; everything hurts. “I could’ve stopped those thugs—"

“And what?” Viktor pulls back. “Get yourself beaten within an inch of your life? Those men were out for robots, you know that.”

Yuuri swallows, stunned by the steely blue in Viktor’s eyes. “But I—”

“You wanted to meet the prince,” Viktor cuts in again, his voice soft but firm. “There’s nothing wrong with desiring love.”

Love? Did he actually say _love_?

Something shatters inside Yuuri.

Slowly, steadily, laughter froths and rises, bubbling up his chest, his throat. Slips past his lips, a sort of dissonant thrill, loud and maniacal and echoing in his ears.

“I wasn’t there for the prince,” he gasps. “I was never there for the prince. I was there for the music, for the dancing… for some sense of  _life_.” He trembles wildly, a strange combination of giggles and sobs wracking his body. “Love? Poor Vicchan only loved me because he didn’t know any better. No one in their right minds can fall in love with someone like me.” His hands fall from Viktor’s shoulders, clutching at his own arms. His cold, stiff, mechanical arms.

“They can’t, and they  _won’t_.”

For a long, drawn-out moment, there’s nothing but Viktor’s pensive silence and the sound of Yuuri’s ragged breath.

Never has Yuuri voiced those thoughts out loud. Not even Phichit has dared to say as much. It is said that words have magic in them; the more they are uttered, the more they come true. And behind Phichit’s bright-eyed confidence, behind Leo’s kindness and Guang Hong’s shy bravado, lies the harsh truth that all three are afraid to admit.

They are unloved—unlovable—and will never be loved.

Without warning, Viktor leans in.

Yuuri’s mouth parts in surprise, just as soft lips press against his. Then, as a hand frames the curve of his cheek, warm and gentle, he relaxes, shoulders falling, eyelids fluttering shut.

It feels too soon when Viktor pulls away, and Yuuri whimpers, the rush of emptiness surging up like a tidal wave.

“I can,” Viktor says softly.

Yuuri blinks. “…what?”

“I can love you,” Viktor says, chuckling, the pad of his fingertips lightly caressing Yuuri’s cheek.

“I always have.”

As Viktor presses in for another kiss, Yuuri wonders if this is how it feels for a heart to swell with warmth.

 

* * *

 

“—with a client? With an  _android_? Have you any idea how many rules you’ve broken, how many ethical violations you’ve committed? We’re in the business of  _granting wishes_ —”

“And yet it is permitted if the client specifically requests for sex,” Viktor says, eyes fixed on his polished nails.

They have been at this for the past twenty minutes, and as comfortable as Yakov’s couches may be, he has far more important things to do. Like snuggle up to Yuuri and watch the sweet thing mumble in his sleep. (For an android, he is surprisingly, endearingly, human.)

Above him, Viktor hears Yakov draw to his full height, huffing like an aged rhinoceros.

“Then you would conjure up a suitable partner, not engage in intercourse yourself!” his superior bellows, his gravelly voice bouncing off the walls. “Make A Wish was created for the sole purpose of granting the wishes of mortals,  _not_  for us to dally around with them! Where is your common sense, Viktor? Have you left it behind with this android of yours?”

“Along with my heart,” Viktor sighs blissfully.

Yakov’s palm meets his forehead in an audible slap.

“If that is all,” Viktor says, rising to his feet, “Then I shall bid you adieu.”

Yakov inhales sharply. “We are  _not_  done. There’s still the matter of the prince and  _his_  request—”

“Tell little Yuri he can have the rest of my clients.” Viktor whips open a portal, silver hair fluttering dramatically against his forehead and over his eyes. “ _Dasvidaniya_ , my dear Yakov. You have been very good to me.”

The last thing Viktor hears is the sound of Yakov screaming his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> Prompts are from [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge) and unfortunately CLOSED at the moment, while I catch up with the backlog! Thank you for all the requests and your kind patience. <3
> 
> You may also check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	32. Serial Killer / Prison / Omegaverse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon @ tumblr

Yakov is yelling something.

Yakov is always yelling something.

A single light bulb sways above them, casting shadows across the dank walls and floors.

Viktor leans back in his seat and kicks his feet up, plastic chair screeching in protest at the sudden weight. Examines his nails as Yakov’s voice rises to an amusingly high pitch. There’s a song rolling about in his mind; the melody is familiar, so familiar, but he’s having trouble placing it. Regardless, the tune is catchy, and it soon slips from his lips in a soft hum as he buffs his nails against the rough fabric of his sleeves. Prison uniforms are ever so hideous.

Somewhere, somehow, Yakov’s voice manages to filter through.

“Are you  _singing_  right now? Do you – do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in right now? You’ve been found  _guilty_  for—”

“Murder,” Viktor says. The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I think I realized that about, oh, five days into my incarceration?”

Yakov kneads his forehead with a thumb and forefinger. “Listen. We can easily reduce your sentence if you’d just give us everything you know about your partner.”

Viktor arches an eyebrow. “What partner?”

The table rocks from the hard slam of Yakov’s palms. “Your wily, vicious little  _psychopath_  of a partner, Mr. Yin!”

“Mr. Yin, the serial killer?” Viktor huffs a laugh, unfazed. He slides his feet off the table, head tilting, light catching in the silvery strands. “What makes you think I’d have anything to do with him?”

There’s a distinct twitch in Yakov’s jaw as he straightens slowly. “You were head detective, Viktor. One of our  _best_. Days after we task you with finding this elusive Mr. Yin, you disappear. Dropped off the face of the planet for months, only to resurface above a dead body with blood on your hands and Mr. Yin’s trademark calling card in your goddamned shirt pocket.” Yakov scowls. “You’ve clearly become the Yang to his Yin.”

Viktor barely manages to contain his smile. “Mr. Yin has nothing to do with my victim,” he says. “You know I have every reason to kill the bastard after what he did to my parents.”

“Yes, but why now? Why not years ago when the man was acquitted? You  _never_ would have done it without Mr. Yin’s provocations!”

Viktor shrugs. “Maybe you just don’t know me as well as you thought you did.”

The vein in Yakov’s head throbs, hot and red. “You—”

“Enough,” snaps a sharp voice over the intercom. “Return him to his cell, we’re going nowhere.”

Yakov whips round to glower at the large mirror panel on a wall. “But Lilia—”

“We are  _done_  here, Yakov.”

When Yakov turns back, Viktor wiggles his fingers in a flippant wave. “Farewell, old friend. See you again in a week?”

Yakov lets out a noise that sounds like a wounded bear.

 

* * *

 

_In the Hall of the Mountain King._

That’s the song that was stuck in his head.

Viktor flips open his diary, stretches his legs out on the thin mattress that passes for a bed. He’s not overly concerned about the leers and jeers of his fellow inmates; their ‘pretty boy’ remarks feel more like well-deserved compliments than taunts. It might worry him that some of his arrests still recognize him, but as it is, his strong alpha scent and solitary, high-security cell will prevent any potential altercations.

 _Questioned by Yakov again_ , he writes.  _Watched his vein pulse for a whole hour. Can’t be good for his high blood pressure._

He twirls the pen, smiling. Yakov can be a tad too persistent—he always was, even in their academy days—but his former boss has a way with words. ‘The Yang to his Yin’ – oh, Viktor liked that. He liked that very much. Yin and Yang are complementary, interdependent opposites; one cannot do without the other. 

One cannot  _exist_ without the other.

And he most certainly cannot survive without his beautiful, alluring—

The heavy door creaks open, cutting into his reverie.

“Ah, Mr. Leroy!” Viktor looks up from his diary. “What kind of meal are you serving to—”

He stops mid-sentence, heart skipping a beat.

Yuuri glows at the door, guard hat tilted rakishly over his eyes. His elbows rest on the handles of the lunch trolley where a tray sits, covered by a silver cloche. It’s uncanny how the otherwise ugly uniform fits him oh-so-perfectly, as though it was precisely tailored to show off the trim line of his waist, the curve of his hips and thighs.  

“Baby,” Viktor breathes, seconds before Yuuri leaps into Viktor’s arms, hat flying.

Their teeth clack from the harsh press of Yuuri’s sudden, open-mouthed kiss, but Viktor doesn’t mind. Not when Yuuri’s body presses desperately against his, when Yuuri’s comforting scent washes over him, when Yuuri’s tongue slips in, warm and sweet.

God, he missed Yuuri so, so much.

“Are you all right?” Yuuri murmurs between kisses. “Did they hurt you? Is there a neck I need to snap? Some drink I need to poison?”

Viktor laughs, ribbons of warmth swirling inside his chest. “I’m fine. Yakov’s bark is worse than his bite.”

“I should’ve gone with you.” Yuuri’s voice trembles, his hands curling against Viktor’s chest. “I shouldn’t have let you—”  
  
“Don’t,” Viktor cuts in gently. “I wanted to do this one on my own, and I messed up. More importantly…” He buries his nose in dark hair and inhales, taking in Yuuri’s shampoo and the unmistakable fragrance of cloyingly thick pheromones. “…you’re dangerously close to your heat.”

“Mmhm.” Yuuri’s smile turns coy. “I can’t wait till we’re home.”

Viktor feels a thrill run up his spine. It’s as if the clock had turned back to the first time they met, the first time he finally found the mysterious Mr. Yin.

The first time Mr. Yin—his Yuuri—allowed himself to be found.

“And how do you plan to get us home?” Viktor asks.

Right on cue, the siren goes off, shrill and piercing. There’s an immediate bustle of noise outside his cell, shouts and bellows of escape, the prisoners are escaping ringing through the doors, just as the announcement system flares to life.

“ _Code 10-98, 10-98. All guard to the front gates; repeat, all guards to the front gates. Calling code_ …”

“Oh, my love, that is brilliant,” Viktor says over the din, fingers itching to caress the light blush that dusts Yuuri’s cheeks. He gestures at his prison garb. “The thing is, I’m not dressed for the occasion.”

Yuuri holds a finger to his lips as he pulls away—much to Viktor’s disappointment—and reaches for the cloche on the tray.

In place of the usual bowl of unidentifiable grey slop lies a neatly folded uniform set.

A prison guard uniform.

“I love you,” Viktor sighs.

“And I, you,” Yuuri purrs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> Prompts are from [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge) and unfortunately CLOSED at the moment, while I catch up with the backlog! Thank you for all the requests and your kind patience. <3
> 
> You may also check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	33. Serial Killer / Prison / Omegaverse, Part Two

Viktor leans in and sighs, elbow slipping off the counter once, twice, before he finds a good position for the damn thing. He’s drunk, he knows that much. Drunk and feeling so very warm, as though he’s wrapped in a cocoon of thick wooly blankets.

It’s the bartender’s fault, really. The man makes the tastiest cocktails, with a smile just as sweet and an ass that curves ever so finely behind a pair of black skinny jeans.

“Has anyone told you how gorgeous you are?” Viktor says.  

“Yes,” the bartender says, cheeks suffusing with color. Viktor pictures that flush spreading down, his eyes roving the man’s throat and exposed line of collarbones. It’s almost sinful the way that silk shirt slips and clings to skin so velvet that Viktor itches to feel the smoothness. Press his mouth against it – over and over and over again.

“Usually after a few drinks in,” the bartender adds with a laugh.

“Oh no,” Viktor says, shaking his head, hair falling into his eyes. “No, no, no. I thought you were cute from the moment I came in. Well, it’s true that I didn’t think of you as sexy at first, but…” He exhales again. “…there’s something about you. Something… enchanting. Like you’re some kind of siren, drawing me in.”

“Hmm,” the bartender says, lips curving further.

Ah, Gorgeous Guy needs more convincing.

Viktor flicks his hair back, slides on his brightest smile. “What if I told you that I’m head detective at the NYPD?”

The bartender raises an eyebrow. “Is that really your best pick-up line?”

Something inside Viktor cracks, and he falters. Just a little. “Omegas love a strong alpha cop,” he says mournfully.

“I see,” the bartender chuckles. “And why, exactly, is a strong alpha cop all alone in a tiny dive bar in the seediest part of Manhattan?”

Viktor rolls his shoulders in a shrug. “Because I wanted to drown my confusion over my latest assignment.”

“Your latest assignment?”

“Oh yeah. Ever heard of Mr. Yin?”

A beat, before the bartender picks up an empty glass and begins polishing it, edge of the rag dragging across the rim. “Who hasn’t heard of Mr. Yin?”

“Of course, he’s all people ever talk about these past few years.” Viktor leans in. A voice that sounds suspiciously like Yakov nags and nags at the back of his mind but he ignores it, as he always does. “Sometimes I just wonder if he’s actually in the right, you know? If we should just let him do what needs to be done. Look, his last victim was involved in human trafficking, right?”

“Allegedly,” says the bartender, gaze fixed on the glass.

Viktor scoffs. “Everyone knows he played a major role in it. Only reason he got off was because of our brilliantly corrupt legal system. Believe me, I’ve seen the unjust release of enough low-lives to _know_. They’re untouchable – at least within the confines of the law.”

The bartender’s eyes flick up to meet Viktor’s, narrowed and pensive.

“Yeah, I get it,” Viktor sighs. “A detective, saying a serial killer should be given free rein to murder.” He pulls back, running a hand through his hair. “It’s stupid.”

“No,” the bartender murmurs. “I don’t think it’s stupid at all.”

Viktor’s chest fills with warmth. It’s the first time he has admitted his true feelings about Mr. Yin to anyone; not even Yakov is privy to his innermost thoughts about the criminal. No, not a criminal; a vigilante. A damn good one, who serves justice to those that managed to escape the retribution they so deserve.

Like his parents’ killer.

“About what you said earlier,” the bartender says suddenly. He sets the glass down, lashes fanning over deep, brown eyes. “I’m a single omega, yes, but I’m not one of your fawning fans.”

Viktor blinks, straightening. Then, slowly, a smile grows on his face, stretching from ear to ear. “Did you just slip in that you’re single?”

The bartender tilts his head. “Did I?” he says, and Viktor is struck by the warmth in his eyes, the soft pink on the curve of his cheeks. “I must be tired from a long shift.”

Viktor opens his mouth, only for his cellphone to vibrate insistently against his thigh. He fished it out of his pocket, glancing at the lit screen.

_New body, new calling card. Report to HQ. NOW._

Speak of the devil.

“Sorry,” Viktor says, wishing to the heavens that Yakov had better timing. “Sorry, I have to, ah… do my cop thing.”

“Go.” The bartender’s smile glows in the dim lighting. “Cop things are important.”

“Yeah. Yes. You’re absolutely right.”

Viktor slides off the bar stool as he breathes long and deep, his mind still foggy from alcohol. Tossing notes on the counter, he turns to make his way to the entrance when he pauses mid-step. 

What is he doing? Is he really just  _walking away_? How long has it been since he has had an actual date? How long has it been since he has felt this way, like he might just have a real chance for love and bliss and a warm, loving home?

Inhaling, Viktor turns back to the counter. “Hey, I was wondering if—"

“It’s Yuuri.”

The bartender’s arm is outstretched, offering a card with numbers written in elegant penmanship across the top.

“Call me,” says Yuuri.

Viktor’s heart soars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> Prompts are from [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge) and unfortunately CLOSED at the moment, while I catch up with the backlog! Thank you for all the requests and your kind patience. <3
> 
> You may also check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	34. Greek Mythology / Royalty / Medical, Part Five

Viktor sits up with a gasp. Sucking in long, shaky breaths, he slaps his hands to his chest. Patting, searching, for the gaping hole that marked the entry of a blood-covered, rusty blade, where white-hot pain seared and spread through his ribs and arms and hips.

But there’s nothing.

Eyes wide, he glances down, pulls and tugs at his tunic in amazement. Not a stitch is out of place, no stain where his blood should have spilled and crusted. He pauses, mind whirring. Wasn’t he wearing armor on the battlefield?

“Oi, Thanatos, your pet’s awake!”

Viktor’s head snaps up at the familiar name.

Hovering over him, a hooded skeleton meets his gaze with holes where eyes should be.

Instantly, Viktor opens his mouth in a silent scream and furiously backpedals, palms smacking against wood as he drags himself away from the undead creature.

—wait, wood?

Then, and only then, does Viktor notice the sound of running water, the rock and sway of his body, the handle of the wooden oar in the skeleton’s bony fingers. 

A boat; he’s on a  _boat_. With a skeleton. In hooded robes.

“Will you get down here, asshole, I  _really_  don’t like the way your pet is eyeballing me!”

A  _talking_ skeleton in hooded robes.

Above them, there’s a sudden whirlwind of black feathers before the boat shakes, water sloshing, in its attempt to accommodate for the new weight.

It’s Yuuri. Yuuri and his beautiful dark wings that fold slowly, elegantly, behind his slim figure, Yuuri and his warm eyes, Yuuri and his smile that lights up and glows and makes something in Viktor’s chest ache.

“He’s not a pet, Charon,” Yuuri huffs. “And I would have flown him over if  _you_ hadn’t insisted on following protocol—”

Mid-sentence, Viktor swallows the rest of Yuuri’s words as he fits their mouths together, tipping Yuuri’s face up with a brush of his fingers. He sighs as Yuuri’s breath catches against his upper lip, as Yuuri’s hands slip round his neck to smooth up and down his back.  

Oh, how he has missed this.

Memories start to flood back, bits and pieces of static images. Of his body falling, of soft whispers touching his cheek, of the sweep of Yuuri’s eyelashes and the curve of his smile, sweet and warm and comforting.

Viktor pulls away just enough to press a kiss on Yuuri’s temple. “I’m dead, aren’t I?” he murmurs.

“Deader than a doornail,” the skeleton agrees.

“ _Charon_.” Yuuri’s face softens when he turns back to Viktor. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice hushed, palm sliding up the curve of Viktor’s cheek. “The second I saw that Trojan behind you, I acted.” He shakes his head. “Your human physicians might have saved you, but I just… I couldn’t bear the thought of you suffering…”

“No, my love. I’m happy to finally be here.” Viktor presses his hand over Yuuri’s, eyes soft. “With you.”

Charon makes a loud retching noise.

Yuuri draws back, flushing. “I, um, I can’t stay for long, but I wanted to help you settle in before I leave.”

“Where am I staying?” Viktor asks as the boat turns, creaking, into the yawning mouth of another passageway. There’s a glow of light at the end, strangely bright for the Underworld.

“Someplace far nicer than you deserve— _ow_!” Charon rubs his ribs ruefully as Yuuri draws his elbow back.

“I think you’ll like it,” Yuuri says, eyes at half-mast, and Viktor feels a thrill up his spine. It has been too long since he has held Yuuri, and if he wants to touch his lover, then talking skeleton be damned – he’s going to do just that.

Viktor takes a step closer, presses a palm to the back of Yuuri’s neck.

“I’ll take any place as long as you’re by my side.”

Yuuri looks up at him, lashes curling, pink darkening across the top of his cheeks. “You’re only saying that because you haven’t seen the other souls in here.”

“Maybe,” Viktor chuckles. Leaning in, he kisses Yuuri, a feathery press of his lips.

Really, Viktor’s only regret is that he will never have the opportunity to share with the world just how soft and sweet it is to have the god of death trembling ever so slightly in his embrace. And, oh, the way he feels so much more  _alive_  when Yuuri curls a fist into his tunic and presses in, deepening the kiss.

Charon clears his throat – or whatever is left of it.

“We’re here, perverts.”

Viktor almost lets out a whine when Yuuri slips out of his arms, again. But the sound catches in his throat when his gaze falls on the sight before him.

A vast meadow of flowers stretches out as far as the eye can see, reds, whites, yellows, and purples vividly dotting a landscape bathed in warm sunlight. Clouds drift across the sky above, impossibly white and soft as cotton, while tiled roofs of houses sit in the far distance; rows upon rows of houses.  

The corners of Yuuri’s eyes crinkle in a smile.

“Welcome, Viktor, to Elysium.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> Prompts are from [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge) and unfortunately CLOSED at the moment, while I catch up with the backlog! Thank you for all the requests and your kind patience. <3
> 
> You may also check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	35. Mafia / Assassin / Soulmate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by dmp1013 @ tumblr

_Oh, he’s beautiful._

The thought vanishes from Yuuri’s mind as quickly as it appeared. It’s a little hard to focus on any one thought, especially when there’s a gorgeous blue-eyed assassin discharging a firearm at him with single-minded precision. Darting forward, Yuuri throws himself behind a desk as the rapid  _pop-pop-pop_ of a Colt 1911 echoes through the cramped office space.

“They said you’re quick,” the hitman says lightly. His accent is subtle but unmistakable, marking him instantly as a member of the Russian bratva. Yuuri takes a peek past the edge of the desk. The man’s hair gleams silver in the fluorescent lights, his lithe frame outlined by a grey Armani suit. “But you have far surpassed my expectations, Yuuri Katsuki.”

“Why, thank you.” Six shots fired; two more to go. Assuming the man holds a standard 45 caliber. Yuuri drops back on his haunches, muscles coiled, grip tightening round a dagger handle. “I’m sorry to say I haven’t heard a thing about you.”

“That is quite a compliment, given our job scope,” the man laughs. “Listen, all I need is that thumb drive in your pocket. Hand that to me, and we can forget this ever happened.”

Yuuri glances at the smoking computers, bullets lodged into screens he was scanning just minutes ago. “I find that hard to believe; you’ve clearly been shooting to kill.”

“Only because it is so much easier to retrieve an item from a dead man. Surely you of all people understand.”

Another peek reveals that the assassin is watching Yuuri with a smile that’s bemused and strangely soft for a ruthless killer.

“So how about it? One little thumb drive in exchange for your life.”

Inhaling, Yuuri ducks down and closes his eyes, visualizes his options. One, he could charge the hitman and face him straight-on. Two, he could locate the nearest stairway and sneak his way out of the building. Three, he could provoke the Russian into firing his last two rounds, then make a break for it while the man reloads his pistol. Or, as an absolute last resort, he could give the man what he wants.  

Yuuri pauses, a light bulb sparking in his head.

Yes, that’s it.

He could give the man what he wants.

Slowly, Yuuri rises from his hiding spot, hands raised in the air.

The hitman’s eyes flick to Yuuri’s sheathed blades, then back up to meet Yuuri’s. “I am so glad,” he says, head tilting, bow lips tipping upward at the corners. “I would hate to kill a colleague as talented and pretty as you.”

“Pretty?” Yuuri says, color suffusing his cheeks. He could trip and fall into those deep baby blues, he really could. (Now there’s an option.) “That’s – I mean – you, um…” When the man’s smile grows wider, Yuuri’s flush deepens. “You wanted the thumb drive…?”

“Come,” the Russian croons, and Yuuri moves—almost instinctively—his heart rabbiting in his chest.

 _Focus, Yuuri, focus._ Yuuri breathes as he sinks one hand into his coat pocket, fingers curling round the thumb drive.  _Concentrate. Observe. Where are the weak spots, the danger points?_  The gun trained on his head is in the man’s right hand, leaving the left hand free for movement –  _possible danger point_. Yuuri’s gaze roves down: spread legs, cocked hips, both suggestive of a relaxed posture –  _definite weak spot_.

And as Yuuri draws closer, the hitman stretches out his left arm, palm turned upwards –  _a perfect opening_.

Celestino was right; overconfidence is, indeed, the mafia’s greatest weakness.  

Yuuri’s hand whips out, flinging the thumb drive high in the air. The Russian freezes, a split second, and it’s all Yuuri needs. Ducking down, he slams his knuckles into the man’s stomach, twisting round to grab the man’s right wrist from behind. He’s jerking it back in a classic armlock maneuver, pistol clattering to the floor, when his sleeve pulls up just enough for a sliver of skin to brush against Viktor’s—

—and the world  _throbs_.

Sounds and images flood in, fast and unbidden. Of tears and screams; gunshots and guttural voices. Of a little boy no older than six, curled against a woman, blood on his face, his neck, his white button-down shirt. Of that same boy standing naked in the shower, silver hair falling over eyes like steel, red liquid circling, pooling, at his feet.

A flash of light, then:

 _Vitya_ , calls a silvery voice, sweet and warm as a beam of sunlight. Yuuri sees soft brown eyes, feels a gentle hand card through his hair. Happiness washes over his being as his fingers clutch at fabric that smells ever so comforting, as his mouth opens in response, joyful and unrestrained.

_Mama-!_

When Yuuri snaps back, he’s sitting on the ground next to the Russian – no, Vitya. Vitya, who is all grown up. Vitya, who stares at him, dazed and wide-eyed.

Yuuri swallows, heart pounding in his ears. He has heard countless stories about soulmates and the ways they find each other. It is said, according to Minako, that a soulmate connection is revealed when a person relieves another’s past – but only when one half of a soulmate touches the other.

If those were Vitya’s memories, then what did Vitya see in Yuuri’s?

“Yuuri,” Vitya croaks, as though his throat was scraped raw. “Yuuri, are we…”

“No.” Vitya’s face falls. “That is, I don’t… well. Maybe?” Yuuri wets his lips, eyes darting frantically about the floor. Spotting the thumb drive, he sweeps it into his pocket and leaps to his feet. Just as Vitya reaches for him. “I, I have to go.”

Without thought, without hesitation, Yuuri bolts for the nearest door, ignoring Vitya’s cry to _wait, please-!_

He can’t have a soulmate. Not right now, not with another assassin.

His daggers feel heavy against his hips as he runs, adrenaline still pumping from the first barrage of shots that almost tore into his face.

_And definitely not like this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> Prompts are from [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge) and unfortunately CLOSED at the moment, while I catch up with the backlog! Thank you for all the requests and your kind patience. <3
> 
> You may also check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	36. Swan Lake / Omegaverse / Crossdressing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon @ tumblr

Yuuri tugs the hood off his head.

Surrounded by tall pines around the edge, the lake is silver in the bright light of the moon, its surface as smooth as glass. He crouches down to sink a hand in the still waters, watches the ripples spread from his touch. The waters cool his heated skin as he listens to the whispering of the trees, his heart calming in the quiet tranquility.  

This is right; this  _feels_  right.

His family will manage without him. At worst, his sister can marry an alpha and have the man take on the Katsuki name, their children carry on the royal bloodline. Mari won’t be pleased, but she deals with the concept of “duty” far better than he ever could.

Yuuri flops onto the grass, the edge of the velvet skirt sliding up his ankles.

Regardless, she’s going to be pretty upset to find her favorite dress missing.

Something rustles behind him.

Yuuri whips round instantly, hand slipping into the thick robe, fumbling for the handle of his dagger. His heart slams against his ribs, questions racing furiously through his mind. Who could it be? The royal guards, sent after their runaway prince? Bandits, eager to rob a lone traveller?

Or Phichit, coming to kill Yuuri himself for not telling him?

The noise grows louder.

Inhaling, Yuuri tugs out his dagger and takes a defensive stance – arms raised, knees bent, feet set hips-width apart. Whoever it is, the least he can do is fight with enough skill to make Celestino proud. The bushes part, and he sinks down further, muscles bunching—

—before a swan toddles out into the open.

Yuuri lets out the breath he was holding.

“Hello, friend,” he says, sheathing his blade. “Where did you come from?”

The swan cocks its head, feathers fluffing in response. Upon closer look, the swan is beautiful, with its thick plumage glowing silver in the moonlight, its beady eyes soft and strangely warm. As Yuuri drops back onto the grass, it slides up to him, neck curling, head nuzzling against his cheek.

Ah, it must be familiar with humans.

Yuuri’s fingers slip instinctively, automatically, into the soft feathers. “Wherever you came from, I’m certain you don’t have a story like mine,” he says.

The swan honks once, a questioning sound.

“Oh, you know, arranged marriage, an unhappy prince, and a daring escape in women’s clothing. The usual business in royalty.” Yuuri huffs, gesticulating with his free hand. “It’s just  _such_  a stupid custom. Why should I have to choose the strongest alpha male amongst a bunch of stuck-up, arrogant noblemen? And to spend an entire lifetime with one of them? Why should an omega have to be with an alpha anyway? Besides, if I’m going to be married, I…”

He exhales, deflating like a punctured balloon. “I want to marry for love.”

Another honk, softer this time.

“Silly, huh?” Yuuri smiles when the swan shakes its head vigorously. “Thank you, but it  _is_  silly. You’d be hard pressed to find anyone my age in the palace. I never would have met Phichit if I hadn’t snuck out of the palace dressed as a girl. ‘Little red riding hood,’ he called me. I chose him to be my butler, and oh, the pranks we played on the kitchen staff…”

Yuuri pauses, taking in a shaky breath. His throat burns now, his eyes sting. It strikes him like a whip: the enormity of his decision, the family and friends and  _life_  he has given up in this one rash move.  

Something warm brushes the curve of his cheek; tips of the swan’s wing. The caress is so tender, so loving, that Yuuri moves without thought, arms wrapping round the swan in a tight embrace, face pressed, trembling, into the fine plumage.

Somehow, this doesn’t feel quite as right anymore.

Above them, the moon has risen fully, a gleaming disc hanging in the ink-stained sky.

“I do wish you could talk,” Yuuri murmurs. “Then maybe you can tell me if I’m acting like… an idiot…” He trails off, eyes growing wide when the swan starts to glow in his arms, its shape morphing, expanding. “W-What—”

Light flashes, sharp and blinding, seconds before a hand grasps Yuuri’s wrist. Draws him in, pulling him against the hard planes of a lean chest.

A human chest.

Slowly, Yuuri turns his gaze upwards.

Gone is the swan, and in its place, a young man with eyes as clear and blue as the lake’s waters. Yuuri is instantly lost in their shifting warmth, in the way the man’s silver hair falls just so, the way bow lips curve in a soft smile.

“I think it takes great courage to follow one’s heart,” says the man, voice low and musical. “But what would I know?”

Eyes sparkling, he leans in, presses a kiss to the back of Yuuri’s hand – a tingle of delight that travels up Yuuri’s arm, right to his heart.

“I’m just a stuck-up, arrogant nobleman.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> Prompts are from [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge) and unfortunately CLOSED at the moment, while I catch up with the backlog! Thank you for all the requests and your kind patience. <3
> 
> You may also check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	37. Fairy / Android / Adventurer/Explorer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by a-vicious-cycle-of-reblogging @ tumblr

The doors burst open to the howl of the wind.

Yuuri looks up as some stranger stumbles in, boots thumping heavily against the wood floor. He’s dressed in rags, ripped and shredded in odd places, while a sling bag hangs from his left shoulder. There’s something about his features, the expression so flat and steely that patrons recoil when he limps past them, his right foot dragging slightly after his left.

“Water,” he rasps, collapsing on a stool at the counter. His bag slides to the ground with a loud thud, while customers quietly, hastily, slip off their seats and scurry to the doors.

“Seems like you need more than water,” Yuuri says.

The stranger’s lips twitch imperceptibly. “Let’s start with water first,” he says.

“Coming right up.”

Filling an empty glass at the sink, Yuuri feels a thrill as the man’s stare bores into his back. It’s not uncommon for a raggedy traveler to come by his inn; why else would he take over an inn located in the middle of some godforsaken desert? It’s one thing to run a city bar for drunkards bemoaning their torrid love affairs, it’s another to run one for outlaws, mercenaries, and all manners of men and women who have chosen to live their life to the fullest.

“What brings you to this side of the world?” Yuuri asks, sliding the glass over. The stranger throws his head back, downing its content in three quick gulps.

“Gold,” the stranger says, wiping his mouth with the back of his glove. “Like everyone else.”

His sleeve—or what passes for a sleeve—slips past his wrist, revealing a glimpse of silver that gleams under the lights.

Yuuri’s eyes grow wide.

Metal.

The stranger’s arm is made of  _metal_.

Before Yuuri can react, something slams into his temple. Pummels at him with little pokes and prods, the sensation of a giant bumblebee butting against him, over and over. Instinctively, he swats out in defense, rewarded by the sound of a high-pitched ‘ _ow_!’

“Sorry,” says the stranger, his gloved hand snatching at something in the air. “Sorry, it’s uh, my uh—”

A voice shrieks from inside the man’s fist, loud and indignant.

“What the hell are you apologizing for!”

Yuuri stares.

The stranger hesitates. Then, slowly, he opens his fist. On his palm sits a human-shaped figure, glowing gold as translucent wings beat a frenetic beat. “He  _knows_ , Beka,” the tiny thing snarls, its sun-kissed hair falling over fierce, emerald eyes. “He knows what you are! We have to kill him!”

“I’d really rather not,” Beka says, unfazed.

“ _Beka_.”

“Is that…” Yuuri swallows. “….is that a fairy?”

“Yes,” says Beka.

“Goddamn it,” says the fairy.

Inhaling, Yuuri drops his hands to the counter, holding the edge to steady himself. An android and a fairy - a most unlikely duo. It’s just as well that his customers had left; even better that others were too immersed in their own conversations to pay any attention to the strange event unfolding at the bar.

“You’re not here for gold, are you?” Yuuri says after a while.

“We’re here for your  _head_ ,” the fairy snaps, just as Beka replies, “No.”

As the pair’s bickering starts again in earnest, Yuuri feels excitement course through his veins, his body tremble with the sudden rush.

Oh, wait till Viktor hears about this one. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> Prompts are from [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge) and unfortunately CLOSED at the moment, while I catch up with the backlog! Thank you for all the requests and your kind patience. <3
> 
> You may also check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	38. Greek Mythology / Royalty / Medical, Part Six

“I never agreed to that placement, by the way.”

Yuuri stops mid-sentence, eyes wide.

He is standing before Otabek in the god’s vast throne room, voice echoing off stone as he reads off the long—disturbingly long—list of souls he has collected the past week. Otabek rarely, if ever, interrupts him, maintaining his stoic silence until the end of the list. Even then, his comments are brief, ranging from a simple “thank you” to the complimentary “good work”.

_I never agreed to that placement, by the way._

That, in fact, is possibly the longest sentence Otabek has ever uttered to Yuuri after centuries of reporting to the God of the Underworld.

“What, um… what placement?” Yuuri asks, vaguely unsettled.

“For that last soul you read,” Otabek says.

Yuuri glances at his list. Instantly, his heart leaps to his throat, eyes snapping up to meet Otabek’s penetrating gaze.

“Viktor Nikiforov, was it?”

Otabek leans back, fingers drumming against the arm of his throne. The noise reverberates through the chamber, crawls up Yuuri’s spine and grates on his nerves.

“We don’t play favorites in my realm, Yuuri.”

* * *

“But,” Yuuri wets his lips, wings unfurling, “When the war started—”

“When the war started, we had ample room in the Underworld.” Otabek arches an eyebrow. “As you well know, circumstances have changed.”

Yuuri’s hands curl, fingers crushing the edge of his scroll. No,  _no_ , Viktor’s death is supposed to give him freedom, love, happiness. Viktor’s death is supposed to bring him _life_. He deserves a place in the Elysian Fields—the one spot of joy in the Underworld—not the grimy, desolate areas designed to fill the dead with an absolute sense of hopelessness.

Oh no, Yuuri isn’t about to give in. Not even to a god that could destroy him with one strike.

“I can vouch for him,” Yuuri hears his voice say, strangely calm despite the pounding in his ears. “I can give you a list of his accomplishments, his good deeds, his – his heroic feats in the war. I can give you all the times he’s made me so, so happy – I mean, that should count for something right, a mortal making a god happy—”

“Here is my proposal,” Otabek cuts in.

He leans forward then, slowly, deliberately, as Yuuri squashes the surge of relief inside him, scroll crumpling further in his fists.

“Quests,” says Otabek.

There’s a pause, long and confused, before Yuuri clears his throat. “Quests?” he says.

“Quests,” Otabek affirms. “Much like the labors of Hercules.”

Yuuri straightens, feathers bristling in indignation. “Viktor has nothing to atone for—”

“Yes, but he has yet to be judged,” Otabek points out. “Because _someone_  saw fit to have him bypass the three judges.”

“Ah.” Yuuri’s wings fold behind his back, wilting ever so slightly. “Right.” Carefully, he makes a great pretense of shaking out his scroll, smoothing the crinkled lines as he considers Otabek’s proposal. Quests should be easy enough for Viktor to manage - as long as they’re reasonable and don’t involve wrestling assorted mythological beasts. “I assume you’re the one who decides on his tasks?”

Otabek’s mouth twitches at the corners.

“About that…”

 

* * *

 

The petite blond folds his arms across his chest, his otherwise beautiful features twisted in a dark scowl. “Did you hear me, mortal? Your first quest is to convince the old hag to let the flowers bloom a little later.” He turns his glare to the white clouds above, as though the sky itself has wronged him in some way. “I’m not ready to leave the Underworld just yet.”

Viktor stares at him, open-mouthed.

“What,” the god snaps, green eyes flashing.

“ _You’re_ Persephone?”

“Why in the name of Hades does everyone keep asking me that!?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> Prompts are from [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge) and unfortunately CLOSED at the moment, while I catch up with the backlog! Thank you for all the requests and your kind patience. <3
> 
> You may also check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	39. Fruits Basket / School / Coffee Shop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon @ tumblr

Yuuri grits his teeth as the sounds of bickering grow louder by the minute. Even Buddha himself would lose patience after hours of  _you’re ugly_  and  _no you_  and  _your mom_  – the last of which doesn’t make a lick of sense, given the circumstances.

“You both have the same mother,” he points out, balancing precariously on the ladder. The argument pauses, Yurio and Mila gazing up at him with identical pouts. Taking opportunity of the blessed silence, Yuuri sweeps his arm in a wide gesture, the end of a paper streamer in one hand. “Look, we’ve been tasked with decorating our classroom for the festival tomorrow. If you’re not helping us, would you please go back to yours?”

Instantly, the siblings’ voices fill the room, rising in volume as they talk over each other in rapid succession.

“It’s boring as hell back there—”

“—I’ve already memorized my lines so—”

“—and I’m not rehearsing anymore scenes with her—”

“—like I’m happy with  _you_  being my Romeo—”

“Viktor,” Yuuri all but yells.

“Just leave them be, love,” Viktor says, mouth curved in a heart shape. Setting up their cash register, he’s already dressed the part of a server for some reason, white polka dots speckled across his maroon-colored apron. “They’ll stop after a while.”

“They’ve been at it since lunch.” Yuuri’s voice does  _not_  take on a whining tone. (And if it does, he has every right, damn it.)

Viktor hums, stalks right up to Yuuri’s ladder. “Would you like a massage?” he says, eyes sparkling beneath silver lashes. “I think you need a massage.”

“Don’t be silly.” Color suffuses Yuuri’s cheeks as he shakes his head, hands pulling shyly at the streamer. It’s uncanny the way Viktor shifts his mood, just like that. Just like his mother. “You know what would happen if you tried.”

“And what torture it is,” Viktor sighs, dropping the back of his hand against his temple, hair falling across his face just so. “To have such beauty within arm’s reach and not be able to feel the curves of your face, your hips, your round, tight—”

Yurio shrieks then, loud and piercing. “Must you do this at  _school_? God, you two are so unbelievably, incorrigibly—"

There’s a sudden ‘pop’ mid-sentence, the small blond disappearing behind a puff of smoke.

Yuuri slaps a palm to his forehead while Mila barks out a laugh, jabbing a finger at the tiger cub that appears in Yurio’s place. “Ha! That’s what you get for being a prude, you little—  _ow_!” She drags the snarling cub off her face, keeps the flailing, thrashing paws at arm’s distance. “You bit my  _nose_!”

“They are a little more energetic than usual,” Viktor notes.

“A little?” Yuuri says.

“Oh, you want a piece of me? Huh? Do you?” Mila and the cub are circling each other now, a herd leader and a predator, battling for dominance. She flexes her arms, curls her fingers like edged claws. “I’d like to see you try, kitty cat.”

As the tiger darts forward, lunging at Mila with glistening fangs, she rears back, vanishing in a cloud of smoke.

“Now, now, children,” Viktor says ineffectually as a horse emerges, tossing its bright red mane. The cub wastes no time in sinking its teeth into the horse’s rump, clinging on with frightening tenacity while the horse leaps about in agony, back legs jolting into Yuuri’s carefully arranged tables.

“No, stop,” Yuuri yelps. “Take it outside!” Without hesitation, without thought, he stretches a hand out and takes a step –

– into nothingness.

Oh, right. He was on a ladder.

Viktor cries out his name, desperately, arms flying open.

 _Mother_ , thinks Yuuri, as he lands in what was supposed to be Viktor’s embrace.  _I’m having the worst school festival ever._  

 

* * *

 

“Yuuri-kun! I thought I’d come over to see how you’re progressing with festival… preparations…” Yuuko trails off, eyes darting from the fallen streamers, to the animals tumbling and wrestling in the middle of the classroom. “I thought your class was, um, running a coffee shop?”

“We are,” Yuuri says, resigned. In his arms lies a large, silver-furred rabbit, its eyes slit shut in utter contentment, head nuzzling into Yuuri’s chest.  

Yuuko’s forehead creases. “Then why does it look like a menagerie in here?”

Yuuri heaves a sigh. Nose twitching, the rabbit looks up at him with soulful eyes.

“It’s a long story.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> Prompts are from [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge) and unfortunately CLOSED at the moment, while I catch up with the backlog! Thank you for all the requests and your kind patience. <3
> 
> You may also check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	40. Omegaverse / Steampunk / Pirates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by storyteller-mage @ tumblr

All Yuuri wanted was a simple life.

After failing the cadet’s exam— _by two points_ , Phichit reminded him like a broken record—he tossed aside his dream of becoming a Star Fleet officer—of protecting the last inhabitable scrap of Earth’s dwindling colony—and settled for hauling cargo across space in a ship that crawled from planet to planet with tired, creaking indolence.

It made sense, really. No other job would suit him quite as well. He was an omega, he reasoned, and an omega had reflexes that were inherently slower compared to their alpha counterparts. Betas, too, probably.

“Two points,” Phichit said, fingers flashing the ‘v’ sign. “ _Two_.”

“Says the beta who dropped out,” Yuuri said.

Phichit leaned back, kicked his feet up on the desk. “Wouldn’t be as fun without you, Cap’n,” he said, grinning.

Shaking his head, Yuuri rose from his seat. Honestly, he was relieved when he learned of his friend’s immediate resignation from the academy. Guilty, but oh, so very relieved. Without Phichit, cargo hauls would have been a dull trek through an endless sea of black, lit only by the occasional star or passing mail carrier. As it was, Yuuri was content to make his hundredth delivery to the red surface of Mars and drag his sleepy ship home in time for supper. 

Or, he would have been, had something not ram, violently, into the side of their cargo ship.

Yuuri slammed into the helm, teeth gritting as pain shot down his hip. There’s a shout amidst the screaming sirens, the flashing red alarms. He whipped his head round in time to catch Phichit thrown off his chair, limbs flailing, before smashing head-first into the ground with a nasty crack. Yuuri gasped his name, but the ship rocked again from a second hit, and  _oh shit the cargo—!_

He was bolting for the door when it blew open, wood chips flying, revealing a woman with striking red hair, lean, sinewy arms, and a gun trained on Yuuri’s chest. The tattoo of a man’s silhouette adorned her right shoulder, the initials  _V.N._  carved in elegant cursive on the top.

 _Pirate_ , Yuuri realized, as he slowly raised his hands.

The woman’s vivid blue eyes darted to Phichit’s crumpled form. “Dear me,” she clicked her tongue. “Looks like someone’s a little clumsy.”

Yuuri’s jaw clenched. “Keep up the reckless violence, and none of us will make it out in one piece.”

“That’s right, you’ve got a ship full of explosive chemicals.” Her smile turned razor-sharp. “We’ll be more than happy to take such  _dangerous_ materials off your hands.”

“Well you can’t have them,” Yuuri said, petulant, his mouth running before his brain could catch up to it. “Only designated government officials are authorized to handle this shipment.”

The woman cocked her gun, still smiling. “You speak as if you have a choice.”

“I do.” Yuuri drew in a deep breath; it was the first time his orientation training was actually going to pay off.

“Because I invoke the right of parlay.”

* * *

The cabin was big and sparsely filled with dark, rustic furniture. By the massive windows stood the captain, gazing at the constellations beyond the tinted glass. He was tall and slender, a maroon coat perfectly fitted to the width of his shoulders, his chest, his waist. A sword hung by his hip, and when he turned to face Yuuri, his hair glowed silver in the starlight, trailing down his chest in a loose ponytail.

“I understand from Mila that you asked for parlay?” he said, voice soft.

It took all of Yuuri’s effort to will his mind away from thoughts of  _oh god he’s beautiful_. Especially with the unmistakable scent of an alpha clinging to every crevice of his cabin. “For me and my partner,” he said, firmly.

Viktor hummed, a contemplative noise. “Yes, of course, but by the rules, parlay may only be invoked by the ship’s captain.” His eyes roved Yuuri, narrowing as they did. “And you are an omega.”

Yuuri bristled. It was true that omegas were inherently slower, weaker. It was true, and yet, the alpha’s words ignited something inside him. Something that boiled and churned his gut, something that wanted nothing more than to take the arrogant bastard down a peg, god-like beauty or not.

“Give me a sword,” he said, “And I’ll show you what an omega can do.”

Behind him, Mila dug the barrel of her pistol into his shoulder blade. “Watch your mouth, boy, or your friend back there—” She halted mid-sentence when her captain held up a palm.

“What is your name?”

“Yuuri.” Yuuri set his jaw, lifted his chin. “Yuuri Katsuki.”

The pirate strode across the room, coattails swaying as he moved. He reached for a sword displayed on a high shelf, its scabbard sleek and black and covered with gold trimmings. For a moment, he examined it, fingers tracing over the gold, before he tossed it, lightly, to Yuuri.

“Viktor,” Mila said, uneasy. “That’s—”

“All right then, Yuuri Katsuki.” The captain—Viktor—drew his own sword, silver edge glinting. “Show me.”

 

* * *

 

It had been years since Yuuri held a sword, but he fought with the graceful ferocity of a cornered animal, years of self-blame and deep resentment flowing into his movements. Muscles bunched and coiled out of sheer instinct as he ducked, thrust, and parried, his sword clashing hard against Viktor’s.

Viktor spun, blade swinging down in a silver arc. Swiftly, Yuuri threw up his sword, sparks flying from the impact. Viktor had greater reach with his long limbs, but it was clear from the start that Yuuri was faster – and a whole lot more flexible. With a sudden jolt, Yuuri lunged forward and, as Viktor’s eyes went wide, pivoted on his front foot to slam his other heel into Viktor’s ribs.

Viktor stumbled, winded, recovering fast enough to parry Yuuri’s next strike. From the corner of his eyes, Yuuri could see more crew members gathering at the doorway, drawn by the sounds of combat. Some part of him thrilled at the thought of an audience.

“Tell me, Yuuri,” Viktor crooned as they backed away and circled each other, predator and prey. “Why is a man of your skill piloting the slowest ship in the galaxy?”

 _I didn’t think I would amount to anything_ , Yuuri almost said.

“I just want a simple life,” he said instead.

“Not a sentiment my crew and I share,” Viktor said to raucous cheers. He darted close, sword flashing, a light tease that Yuuri dodged, easily. “Is that something your, ah, partner desires as well?”

“Phichit?” Yuuri retaliated with a quick jab, Viktor dancing out of the way. “I don’t know what he wants.”

“Seems a little cold for a lover.”

“Phichit's just a friend.”

“Ah.” Blue eyes sparkled, bright as the stars above. “My mistake.”

And suddenly, Viktor was up in his face, nose to nose, his scent crashing over Yuuri in a tidal wave of pheromones. Yuuri’s breath caught as he lurched backwards, knees growing weak. Feebly, he swung a fist at Viktor, only to have long fingers curl round his wrist, tug him against the plane of a firm chest. Yuuri’s sword clattered, forgotten, to the floor.

“You cheated,” Yuuri gasped, voice muffled in fabric.

Viktor’s laugh rumbled through him. “Here’s something you should know about us pirates.” He tipped Yuuri’s chin up, mouth softly curved. “We never fight fair.”

Yuuri shivered, felt himself fall into the depths of warm, endless blue. “Then the parlay—”

“—stands. You’ve more than proven yourself as captain.” Viktor’s palm on his waist was gentle. “What would you like?”

“For you and your crew to leave,” Yuuri said without thought.

Cackles erupted from the doorway; he had forgotten about the peanut gallery.

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way,” Viktor chuckled. “A parlay is a negotiation, not a request.”

“I…” Yuuri wet his lips and, finally, reluctantly, pushed Viktor off. “I’ll have to talk things through with Phichit…”

“My terms are simple enough,” Viktor cut in, as if Yuuri hadn’t spoken. He spread his arms wide. “You, in exchange for our peaceful departure.”

A yelp of  _what the fuck Viktor_  surfaced from the crew, before an intense discussion followed between Viktor and a pretty little blond looking no older than fifteen. Mila joined in soon after, a mediator for what looked like an impending fight.  

Yuuri stared at them, mind whirling. Viktor was a mad hatter, mercurial and unpredictable. Who would rob a cargo ship of priceless explosives, only to ask for a worthless, dispensable omega? And yet, there was something strangely sincere about Viktor. Maybe it was the warm light in his eyes or the softness in his curled mouth. Or maybe it was the alpha scent that lingered, arousing Yuuri’s hormones.

Whatever the case, Yuuri was willing to take anything that guaranteed Phichit’s safety.

“You’ll leave Phichit and the cargo alone?” he said, sharply.

Viktor broke away from the discussion, beaming. “Right where we left them,” he said, ignoring the little blond’s protests. He stepped closer, stretched out a hand. “Do we have a deal?”

All Yuuri wanted was a simple life.

But it seemed— as Yuuri nodded once, gripping Viktor’s hand for a steady shake—fate had other ideas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> Prompts are from [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge) and unfortunately CLOSED at the moment, while I catch up with the backlog! Thank you for all the requests and your kind patience. <3
> 
> You may also check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	41. Swan Lake / Omegaverse / Crossdressing, Part Two?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For yoiroyaltyweek on tumblr!
> 
> Day 1: Balls & Masquerades

Yuuri recognizes him instantly.

Lights shimmer on silver hair, the warmth in his eyes dancing bright and blue behind a feathered mask. He’s dressed in full regalia—black and pink with gold trimmings and dark fur lining his shoulders—looking every inch the prince he claims to be. Whispers of  _who is that_  and  _oh how handsome_ ripple through the crowd, the men turning to him with an edge to their stares, the women smiling coyly behind their fans.

A hush falls over the ballroom as he strides up to Yuuri. Falls to one knee and presses a kiss to Yuuri’s hand.

“My runaway prince,” Viktor whispers.

Yuuri breathes. “But how…"

“I couldn’t bear the thought of you dancing with another.” 

Yuuri’s heart skips. He wants to leap into Viktor’s arms, bury his nose in Viktor’s comforting scent as he always does, but the watchful gaze of the King and Queen restrains him. Around them, his alpha suitors start to complain—something about unwanted guests and the lack of palace security—and Yuuri wonders if he should assure them that his time was theirs, or some such nonsense. But the light in Viktor’s baby blues is so warm, the curve of his mouth so soft and sweet, that Yuuri lets himself be whisked onto the dance floor without protest.

Viktor’s hand settles on his waist, while Yuuri, boldly, smooths his own up Viktor’s chest to his shoulders. Relishes in the shudder that runs under his palm. “You never fail to surprise me,” Viktor murmurs as their feet start to move in time with the music, slow and languid. 

“Says the one who shows up unannounced and uninvited,” Yuuri teases.

“Touché,” Viktor says.

They turn, slowly, gliding across the ballroom with each step. They make quite the pair, Yuuri realizes, his royal colors of white and blue a stark contrast to Viktor’s black and pink. “Will you tell me now, how you’ve changed back without a full moon?” he asks. 

Viktor squeezes Yuuri’s hand. “There is a witch,” he says.

“Never a good start,” Yuuri notes to Viktor’s chuckle. 

“She’s good of heart, or so they say.” Viktor lifts his arm and Yuuri follows, spinning. “But even Leroy’s curse is too powerful for her.” He tugs Yuuri back, flush against his chest. “This change is temporary.”

Yuuri looks up through his lashes, sadness touching his smile. “How long do we have?”

“Until midnight.” Viktor’s voice goes low and hushed, his fingers reaching up to tip Yuuri’s chin, thumb sweeping, lightly, across Yuuri’s bottom lip. “But I will always be yours. Today, tomorrow, the rest of forever.”

Yuuri can’t think. He can see Viktor’s face alight with love behind the mask, feel Viktor’s heat everywhere they touch, and suddenly, everything holding him back—family and duty and royal obligations—everything falls away, leaving only a surge of affection that swells and swells, too big for his heart to bear. 

So before his parent and suitors, before the entire royal court, he kisses Viktor, hands curling into dark fur. 

Viktor sighs. Brushes his tongue against Yuuri’s, and Yuuri parts his lips, lets Viktor in. A royal omega, initiating a kiss in the open with some masked stranger. Yuuri’s certain he’s broken several protocols, maybe even a few laws, but he can’t bring himself to care. He likes the way Viktor feels against him: the way silver lashes caress his cheeks, the way hands rest on his hips, soft but firm. The way they fit so perfectly together, black and white, two halves of a whole.

When they part, Viktor pulls away just enough to press his forehead against Yuuri’s, his laugh gone breathless. “To think _I_  was holding back.”

Yuuri wants to kiss Viktor again, so he does. (They’ve gone far beyond prudence by now.) “We’ve stopped dancing, ” he murmurs.

“Mmhm.” Viktor’s mouth presses against Yuuri’s cheek, then the other, feathers from his mask tickling Yuuri’s nose. “So we have.”

From the corner of his eyes, Yuuri sees his family marching over. And only his sister looks amused. “I hope you’re ready to meet my parents.“

Viktor cocks his head to one side, winks. “Parents adore me.” 

Yuuri laughs, light and soft. If nothing else, Viktor’s boundless confidence marks him, undeniably, as an alpha prince.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> Prompts are from [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge) and unfortunately CLOSED at the moment, while I catch up with the backlog! Thank you for all the requests and your kind patience. <3
> 
> You may also check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	42. Post-apocalyptic / Japanese Folklore / Soulmates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by crimsonseer @ tumblr

The atmosphere at Iya Jinja is… eerie, Yuuri decides. It’s quiet—too quiet—without crowds, without shrine maidens, without the sense of serenity found at most shrines. The  _torii_  gates are an austere stone grey, the  _shimenawa_ across the worship hall is thick and heavy, as if made to ward off not one, not two, but vast armies of evil spirits. And it’s no wonder, given the shrine’s reputation for being built on Yomotsu Hirasaka, the boundary between the land of living and dead.

“It says here that the entrance to the land of Yomi is within walking distance!”

Viktor closes his guidebook and links his arm through Yuuri’s, leading the way, not noticing the way Yuuri’s eyebrows knit together, the way his lip sinks between his teeth.

“Maybe we should leave that alone,” Yuuri says, but Viktor is insistent. Just as he was about this two-week shrine tour across Japan. Yuuri blames Yuuko; she should know better than to incite Viktor’s curiosity with that big book of Japanese mythology for Christmas. Viktor has been obsessed ever since, citing stories about the birth of Japan’s great islands, the gods and goddesses that followed the creations. What started as an adorable hobby slowly became, well, a full-blown obsession.

They find the entrance a little too easily for Yuuri’s liking – a boulder with which Izanagi-no-Mikoto, father of creation and life, was said to have blocked the entrance to Yomi-no-Kuni—the land of the Dead—while his trapped, undead wife, Izanami-no-Mikoto, shrieked her curse upon him and his lands.

For something that seals the underworld, the boulder looks curiously, terrifyingly, breakable.

“There are cracks on it,” Viktor observes, smoothing a palm up the rough surface without hesitation. “You’d think something so important might be more… effective?” He turns, flaps his hand up and down. “Yuuri, come feel.”

Yuuri wrings his hands, head shaking. “I really don’t think we’re allowed.”

“I’m sure it’s just a myth,” Viktor says, encouraging.

Right. Just a myth.

Breathing deep, Yuuri steps up to Viktor, rests a hand on the boulder. There’s a moment of silence, before he smiles at Viktor, relieved. “That’s not so bad—"

His words cut off when a bolt rockets up his arm, when something courses into the depths of Yuuri’s mind, water into an empty vase.

 _You will do_ , says a voice, in a low, soft hiss.

The last thing Yuuri sees is Viktor’s hand reaching for him, Viktor’s mouth shaped around the syllables of his name in a scream.

 

* * *

 

“… and One believes Raijin has been released. By Mother, of course. She always favored him, it is ever so obvious, and then there is that hateful Susano-o— are you listening, mortal?”

Viktor swings his sword, flecks of blood flying off the blade. The hag he cut down crumples to the ground in a heap of dust. “Not if you keep calling me ‘mortal’,” he says, white teeth flashing.

“How dare you treat One with such disrespect,” Yuuko snaps, so uncharacteristic of the bubbly woman that Viktor feels his heart clench.

For Viktor, his life ended when Izanami was unleashed. When the length of his love’s dark hair grew past his shoulders, his back, his knees, when the soft brown of his love’s eyes turned a manic crimson red.

 _You, One shall spare_ , the goddess whispered, a gust of breath by his ear, and then Viktor was left behind. Left to fall to his knees, to slam his fists against the dirt and howl his grief to the blackening sky.

Left to wake from dreams of a warm bed and soft hands and honey-brown eyes, to the cold sheets with no one by his side.

It didn’t take long for Izanami to wreak havoc across the lands. She released the hags from the underworld, summoned  _oni_ and  _tengu_  from the mountains. Imprisoned Amaterasu Oomikami, the Sun Goddess, plunging everything into darkness. Signals ceased; all networks died. Japan was cut off from the rest of the world as Izanami-no-Mikoto fulfilled her revenge: 1,000 lives every day, for her husband’s folly.

And one by one, they fell. The Katsuki family, the Nishigori family. Minako and Makkachin.

Viktor tried to protect them, tried to sacrifice his own life, several times, only for the demons to rush past him – so strong was Izanami’s decree. Yuuko was the sole survivor—”Takeshi,” was all she was willing to say, red-eyed and clutching Axel’s purple hair tie—and she joined Viktor, despite his objections, on his crusade to save Yuuri.

It was Yuuko who suggested rescuing Amaterasu. Yuuko, who got them all the way to Ise Jingu. Who valiantly, boldly, gave up her body as a vessel for the temperamental goddess.

“… One would think, even with your puny, alien,  _mortal_  brain, that you would know better than to defy a god…”

Or maybe ‘talkative’ is a more accurate word.

“Look,” Viktor says, ramming the tip of his sword in the earth. Amaterasu’s mouth, mercifully, clamps shut. “Yuuko gave you voice so you could tell us how to defeat Izanami and send her back to the land of Yomi. Do you have any ideas, or should I force you out of her body?”

The goddess sniffs. “One’s radiance will burn you to a crisp.”

Viktor holds up a large pot, from which Amaterasu flinches with the hiss of a wounded cat. “I can always seal you right back where I found you,” he says brightly.

“You are no different from One’s idiot brother.” Pouting, Amaterasu flops to the ground, pulls her knees to her chest. Yuuko’s knees, Viktor thinks with a twinge in his chest. “None of us are strong enough to fight Mother,” was the sullen conclusion. “Your only hope is to wake Father from His slumber. He can gather spirits to help, perhaps beg for Mother’s forgiveness.”

“Mediate a marital spat?” Viktor hums. “Is that all there is?”

“He, too, will require a vessel,” Amaterasu points out. “And Mother will never allow you to make contact with Him.”

Viktor shrugs as he tugs his sword out and sheathes it. Who knew a decorative ornament in Yu-topia Katsuki would become such a formidable weapon? “Your mother seems reluctant to kill me.”

“Of course. To kill you would be to destroy Herself.”

A beat, then, “Explain,” says Viktor.

“The red string,” Amaterasu says, as if those three words were more than sufficient. When Viktor gives her a frown between furrowed brows, she sighs, and Viktor is reminded of Yuuri’s expression when he forgets to take the clothes out of the wash for the third time. Of how much he misses Yuuri, acutely, down to his bones.

“Can you not see the red string on your finger?” Amaterasu lifts Viktor’s right hand to his face, shakes it for good measure. “You are bound to Mother’s vessel, soul to soul. Any harm that comes to you will fall upon Her as well.”

Viktor’s eyes grow wide. He can’t see the red string, no, but he _can_  see the light at the end of a long tunnel. “Then if I become the vessel to Izanagi…”

“You will be unstoppable,” Amaterasu finishes. “But Mother will find a way to hurt you before you can reach Him. The red string only carries physical blows, and Mother is…” Her face falls. “Mother is a merciless general at psychological warfare.”

Viktor draws in a deep, long breath. Without Yuuri, he’s no more alive than Izanami herself. Without Yuuri, he has nothing left to lose.

“I’d like to see her try,” he says, while Amaterasu gazes at him with eyes reminiscent of Yuuko’s when she was watching his practice at the Ice Castle all those years ago. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	43. Angels / Demons / Bayonetta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by sumi-ink-ninja @ tumblr and Warrior Nun @ AO3

Yuuri barely has time to close the door before Viktor’s mouth is on his. He gasps into the kiss, presses closer as hands slide down his curves, hot and feverish over his skin-tight suit. It’s like this after every fight, after every blood-soaked, heart-thumping romp with the Angels. Something about the thrill of battle—of leather pulling, stretching, over chest, thighs, ass—drives Viktor into a state of frenzied lust.

Yuuri’s breath hitches as Viktor crowds him against the wall, as Viktor’s kiss turns aggressive, hints of tongue and teeth. His fingers slip into Viktor’s hair, silver strands that fall and curl against the back of his hand when he tugs the ribbon loose. He pulls at them, gently, chuckling when Viktor groans in response, hands tightening round the curve of his hips.

“Again,” Viktor breathes, and Yuuri chuckles harder, carding his fingers through the long tresses, soft as silk. He enjoys playing with Viktor’s hair, as much as Viktor enjoys playing with Yuuri’s.  _Enjoyed_ , rather. The despairing noise that Viktor gave him when he revealed his shorn hair made his heart trip, made laughter bubble, warm and happy, up his throat. An outcast for so long, no one has cared for Yuuri, for his  _existence_ , let alone something quite so trivial as a haircut.

Viktor nips at him, sharply, teeth scraping down the column of Yuuri’s neck. “You’re thinking,” he says, admonishing.

Yuuri hums, head tilting to give more access. Viktor hates it when he’s distracted, when he delves into the ugliest recesses of his mind, too far gone to appreciate the beauty, the world he holds in his arms. Sometimes, Yuuri wonders what it would be like to be human—to  _both_ be humans—blissful in their blind faith of a corrupt God and the legends of Paradiso.

Ah, but they’re not, are they? They are Witches of darkness: the hunted, the hated. The last of their kind. The Witch Hunts took everything from Yuuri: his family, his friends, tortured and murdered by the humans who saw only evil in their powers, spurred on by the last of the Sages. For centuries, Yuuri journeyed alone, took out his anguish on any Angel that dared engage him.

Until the return of Viktor Nikiforov. Viktor, who took to him like a Witch to darkness, an Angel to light, who reminded him of warmth and hugs and homecooked meals. Who guided him home, a lighthouse on a stormy ocean.

“Yuuri~” Viktor says then, a soft whine, his pout filling the gaping hole in Yuuri’s heart.

“If I’m  _thinking_ …” Yuuri hooks a leg round the trim waist, drags Viktor close to him. “… it’s because someone isn’t doing his job,” he finishes, mouth sliding, hot and damp, down the shell of one ear.

There’s a sharp hiss before Yuuri is hauled over Viktor’s shoulder—“ _Vitya_ ,” he shrieks in laughter—before he’s thrown onto the sheets— _their_  sheets—and all Yuuri can think about after that is Viktor’s quick fingers and clever hands, Viktor’s bright eyes and warm mouth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	44. Music Band / Soulmate / Omegaverse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon @ tumblr

It’s strange, having an omega in the band. Changes accompany the new member’s arrival: the new stipulations in their contracts, the bottles of heat suppressants on the dining table, the waft of sweet fragrance and clean sweat throughout the apartment. Christophe is delighted, of course; he always thought an omega would balance out the group, soften the edges. Otabek doesn’t comment—Otabek hardly comments—while Yura loudly, vehemently, complains about the new rules, the stipulations, the “goddamn stench”. But no one misses the way he breathes in deep, chest rising and eyes falling shut, when he passes the new member’s room – an instinct, innate and too strong for him to resist.

For Viktor, he’s thrilled to have the omega. Sure, he was sad when Georgi chose to leave and pursue his ex-girlfriend halfway across the world like the (mad) romantic he is, but the minute he laid eyes on the new member in the practice room—no, the _second_ —he was hooked.

Yuuri Katsuki is beautiful.

He doesn’t know it, judging by the way his honey-brown eyes fell to the floor on their first official meeting, the way his slender fingers fidgeted with the hem of a plain black T-shirt, the way a flush painted his cheeks, pink and sweet. His voice shook when he spoke— _I’m so honored; so, so honored_ —and the corners of his smile trembled, ever so slightly, like he couldn’t believe he’s in the band, like  _he’s_  one who got lucky.

Watching Yuuri dance that night, Viktor thought the band is the lucky one.

The omega’s gaze burned into his own reflection in the mirror as he moved, slick and sharp and smooth. Gone was the uncertainty, the little boy who thought he couldn’t. Yuuri transformed on the dance floor, and even Yura had to concede to his talent after watching the omega work through their choreography with ease.

The only problem is, Yuuri’s shy, with a brain that’s denser than Yura’s homemade pancakes. For one thing—the only thing, really—he hasn’t responded to any of Viktor’s advances. A wink sends Yuuri flying, flustered, to the other side of the practice room; a “you look absolutely divine this morning” gets a spluttered “um thank you?” and an odd crab-like scuttle out of the bathroom. At one point, he offers a lollipop to Yuuri, lips sliding round his own lollipop with slick, obscene sounds. (“I don’t like candy,” Yuuri says, face strangely blank.)

“You’re too subtle,” Christophe says, amused. “Maybe something more obvious might help. Something so in his face that he can’t help but acknowledge it.”

“Like what?” Viktor sighs, sprawled across the couch, a hand pressed to his forehead. He’s not sulking—he’s  _not_ —but it’s hard not to feel discouraged after so many rejections. Especially with Yura pointing and laughing at every failed attempt.

Christophe hums. “Don’t you have that underwear shoot coming up? For Diesel?”

“What about it?”

“Well…”

 

* * *

 

Yuuri freezes when he opens the door.

Clearing his throat, Viktor stretches against the doorframe, eyes at half-mast, one palm on the curve of his hip. “What do you think?” he croons.

Yuuri’s eyes dip down, then hastily, right back up. “You’re um.” He adjusts his glasses, throat bobbing in a swallow. “You’re very naked.”

“Not exactly.” Viktor’s hand drops down, caresses the silk band emblazoned with the letters DIESEL across the fabric. Dips a thumb in and snaps it, loud and sharp, against his bare skin. He chose this one for the shape, the fit. The way it accentuates his curves and the shallow lines that run down his hips. “I’m asking for your thoughts on this new underwear I’m modeling later.”

“Oh.” Yuuri’s tongue darts out, wetting his lips. “I’m… not much of a fashion person.”

“All the more important,” Viktor says, eyes drawn to Yuuri’s mouth like a bee to honey. “I must make this attractive to all, even those who are not into fashion like yourself.”

A beat, then softly, “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

Viktor blinks. “Do what?”

“Be so nice.” Yuuri draws his bottom lip between his teeth. “I know fans aren’t happy to have an omega replace Georgi, a-and I get that you’re just trying to show your support, but you don’t have to force yourself to be nice to me all the time.” He inhales, deeply, through his nose. “I promise I won’t let the band down on your next comeback.”

Viktor straightens, heart clenching in his chest. Their fans; he had forgotten about them, the intensity and zealous dedication they have for the band and its members. He doesn’t check the internet anymore, not after the last time he searched his own name. (The words  _plastic surgery_  and  _hair implants_  had haunted him for days.) And now, of course, they would have something to say about an omega joining what used to be an all-alpha band. Something nasty and cutting, something that would have torn a person apart.

And he sees now, just how strong Yuuri has been.

Breathing deep, Viktor takes Yuuri’s hand, presses it gently to his lips. “You mean  _our_  comeback,” he says.

Yuuri’s eyes go wide. Then, he flushes, and nods.

“And I want you to know that I’m being nice because I  _want_ to be nice,” Viktor continues, firm. “Because I want to get to know you better, find out who Yuuri Katsuki is. Your likes, your dislikes, everything and anything about you.” Viktor pauses to enjoy the way Yuuri’s flush spreads from his cheeks to his neck, to wonder just how far down it goes. “Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” Yuuri murmurs.

“Good,” Viktor says.

There’s a moment of silence, lingering in the air between them, and then Yuuri reaches out. Presses the pad of his fingers to a spot just above the silk waistband while Viktor’s breath catches in his throat. “You have words here,” Yuuri says, in awe. “Japanese characters.”

“Oh, is that what they are?” Viktor laughs, shakily. “I’ve had them since birth, never knew what they meant. What do they say?”

Emotions flicker across Yuuri’s face, as if unable to settle on one. “‘Katsuki Yuuri’,” he says in a whisper.

“But that’s—”

“—my name,” Yuuri finishes, breathless.

Viktor’s chest tightens. He wants to step forward, wants to pull Yuuri into his arms and hold him, scent him. Not everyone has a mark, but he has wished for a soulmate since he was five, dreamt of the ways they would meet, the ways they would fall in love. If he had known that he bore the mark of a soulmate, if he had  _known_ —

“Do you have one in Russian?” he blurts out.

Yuuri’s flush deepens. “I’m not sure. I-It’s hard to see mine because it’s um. It’s…” He gestures vaguely around his thighs, open and bare where the line of his shorts end, where Viktor now itches to press his fingers, his mouth, his tongue. “…well-hidden,” he concludes softly.

“May I?” Viktor says over the rush of blood to his ears.

“Maybe,” Yuuri says, lashes dipping in a way that makes Viktor’s pulse jump. “If you’ll—”

“— _put on some damn clothes_ ,” Yura shrieks from the living room. “Beka, I need bleach,  _I need bleach for my eyes_ , my poor innocent eyes—”

As Yura’s voice fades into the kitchen, Yuuri starts to laugh, a warm sound that fills Viktor’s heart to the brim. “I was going to say, if you’ll come back with clothes on.”

“Done,” Viktor says, eyes shining.

It’s strange, having an omega in the band. Strange and wonderful and full of surprises, and Viktor won’t have it any other way. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	45. Harry Potter / Mafia / Soulmate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon @ tumblr

There’s a rumor that the  _yakuza_ have a new weapon.

People say it’s unlike anything anyone has seen, with the speed of a fired bullet and the explosive power of an armored tank. It lights people on fire, a survivor says. Covers them with ice or blasts them into walls. Or, says another, trembling, shaking; or it grabs you from the inside. Twists your spine and leaves you screaming till your throat rubs raw.

“I cannot have the men terrified of some ridiculous myth,” Yakov tells Viktor. A vein throbs in the old Pakhan’s temple as he speaks through gritted teeth. “Go and find out what this so-called ‘weapon’ is.”

So Viktor brings a few men to one of the bars downtown, a  _yakuza_ -owned joint. Orders them to break a few bottles and knock the servers round a bit while he lights a cigarette at the bar counter. If it’s one thing the Japanese mafia won’t stand for, it’s having their businesses tampered with, their profit margins ruined. When the men release the staff, allowing them to bolt out of the bar, Viktor knows it won’t be long before the  _yakuza_  send in a local boss to deal with him.

Sure enough, a  _yakuza_  member steps into the bar ten minutes later, his dark hair slicked back, the vivid colors of a dragon rising up the length of his arm in a billow of clouds. His eyes are hard but his mouth, soft and pink. He’s not dressed in a suit like his associates, and his shirt collar falls tantalizingly open, revealing the fine line of collarbones and just a hint of skin.

But while Viktor is taken by the man’s pretty face and lithe frame, it’s not just his appearance that has Viktor’s lips parting, cigarette falling, forgotten, to the ground.

 _10_ , registers the soulmate counter burned into the soft skin of his wrist. Ten steps away from his soulmate.  _To_  his soulmate.

And as the _yakuza_  member moves toward him, his eyes widen with each shifting digit.

9… 8… 7… 6… 5… 4… 3…

“The  _kumicho_  felt you wanted our attention, Mr. Nikiforov,” the man says, a mere three steps away, and Viktor’s eyes dart up to meet his. “And now you have it.”

“Sanada  _kumicho_  never takes my calls.” Viktor hears his men coming up behind him, so he breathes in, deep and long. Slows his rabbiting heart before he makes a fool of himself. “This seems like the best way to get my questions answered.”

A smirk pulls at the corner of the man’s mouth. “That’s because a call from you is never good news.” He folds his arms, muscles shifting in a way that makes Viktor’s teeth sink into his bottom lip. “What questions do you have?”

“It would help to know who I’m talking to first,” Viktor says, congratulating himself on keeping his voice steady.

The man tilts his head. “Yuuri,” he says after a moment. “Yuuri Katsuki.”

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, dragging out each syllable, tasting the sweet name on his tongue. He’s rewarded with a blush, slipping soft and pink across Yuuri’s cheeks. Briefly, his gaze flicks to Yuuri’s wrist, wondering if Yuuri, too, has a soulmate counter, one that now blinks a small ‘3’, over and over in faded grey.

But Yuuri shakes his head as if to clear his mind. “Just what do you want to know, Mr. Nikiforov?” he asks.

“There is much talk about a weapon.” Viktor shrugs. “I’d like to know what it is.”

Yuuri blinks, before his face lights up in a smile. “You’re direct. I like that.”

 _What else do you like_  is on the tip of Viktor’s tongue, but he bites the words back, swallows it down. Not now, not until their business is settled.

Yuuri is reaching into his pocket now, and the atmosphere grows tense, sounds of restlessness coming from the men. Yakov has the Bratva carry firearms at all times; a safety precaution, he calls it, though Viktor sees it more as a hazard. A great many tragedies could have been avoided if the younger members didn’t have a trigger to pull every time they felt scared. Viktor shoots a glance at the men, eyes narrowed, one palm held in the air. They return the barest of nods, understanding: don’t fire unless told.

And Viktor knows he made the right choice, when Yuuri draws out a… stick. An ordinary piece of wood, as far as Viktor can tell, albeit elegantly carved.

“The weapon you’re asking about,” Yuuri says, without a trace of irony.

It’s one of Viktor’s men who reacts first. “You call that a weapon?” he guffaws, while the rest of the men start to snigger with him. “That’s just a stupid little—”

“ _Finestra_.”

Bottles shatter behind the bar, and the men duck, swearing.  

Viktor pushes off the counter, eyes fixed on the Yuuri’s stick. On the end that now glows an unearthly blue. “What did you do?” he breathes.

Yuuri’s own eyes are shining now, and Viktor cannot help but be drawn to the sheer delight dancing in the rich honey-brown. “Now that, I cannot tell you.” His head tilts again then, expression coy. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Oh, where to even begin. Viktor opts for the truth. “You realize you’ve only created more unanswered questions.”

Yuuri nods. “If your men clean up the mess they’ve made, I’d be willing to answer another.”

The same fool who spoke first comes forth a second time. “Who are you to talk to our Avtoritet like that—”

“ _Diffindo_.”

Screams echo through the bar as the fool’s belt tears in half, his hands scrambling for his falling trousers, much to the amusement of the others.

Viktor turns back to Yuuri, mouth quirked at the corner. “Doesn’t seem like we have a choice.”

“You’re free to walk away,” Yuuri says, tapping his cheek with the end of his stick.

“ _Or you can ask about my soulmate counter_ ,” says a voice in Viktor’s head that sounds strangely like…

Yuuri is looking up at him through those long lashes now, making his pulse jump faster, higher. Three steps – three steps of separation that Viktor wants to narrow down to a zero. “Clean it up,” he barks at his men in Russian. His voice has gone rough, and he can only hope the men sees it as irritation.

As Yuuri takes two steps closer and leans against the counter next to Viktor—the digits blurring to a ‘1’—Viktor realizes that he already has the answer Yakov is looking for.

The  _yakuza_  has a new weapon.

And his name is Yuuri Katsuki.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	46. Omegaverse / Harry Potter / Sex Worker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon @ tumblr

The rain drenches him to the bone, but Yuuri pays no heed as he darts past the blinking neon signs, the beckon of goblins into their dens of pleasure and sin. The sex industry is an ever-growing enterprise, and where there is profit, there will be goblins. Bag held over his head, Yuuri doesn’t stop running until he finds the sign he’s looking for:  _L’Enchantement_ , in glaring pink. He ducks through the double doors, beelines for the counter.

The witch there barely spares him a glance. “You know where to find ‘em,” she says, flipping a page of her magazine.

Yuuri’s shoes make horrible squelching noises as he strides down the corridor and through the dance area, circling round the runway in the center. Yuuri is certain the place has a far different feel at night, when the strobe lights are on and flashing color, when people flood the space for a glimpse of naked dancers. But now, with a single light bulb and nothing amidst the tables and armchairs, it looks sad and so… hollow.

Perhaps that is the true nature of  _L’Enchantement_ , or any of the establishments in this hidden district. Enchantments and illusions – deceptions created to mask the tragedies lurking beneath.

Yuuri’s stomach sinks, as it always does, when he steps into a room with rows of cages lining the walls. Each cage houses a magical creature—Veelas, sirens, and mermaids—a specialty of  _L’Enchantement_  and the reason for its name. The reason for Yuuri’s monthly visits.

“Hey, Dr. Handsome,” a siren croons from her cage.

“You’re late, cutie,” giggles a mermaid.

Collars adorn their necks, just like the others, with currents of electricity set to force them into submission. Yuuri remembers weeping in Phichit’s arms the first time he encountered them, remembers his gasps and stutters of  _how could they_  and  _why_. Remembers the sheer guilt at his powerlessness to save these magnificent creatures.

Yuuri sighs as he sheds his wet coat, draping it over a chair. “You know I’m not a doctor,” he says.

“A doctor to us.”

“Mmm, yes.  _Our_  doctor.”

Heat rises to Yuuri’s cheeks. As an expert in magical creatures, he knows better than anyone that he’s with beings that use enticement—no, seduction—to lure in their prey. Yet, they’re hard to ignore. Harder still, when one has formed a sort of attachment to them.

Undoing his cuffs, Yuuri rolls them backwards, up his elbow and out of the way. The fabric clings to his skin, damp and tight, but he focuses on opening his bag of tools next, rather than the hungry gazes that burn into him from the cages.

“Okay,” he says, pulling a ring of keys off the hook on the wall. “Shall we start with Viktor first?”

“Aw, you always start with Viktor,” the first siren huffs.

Yuuri flushes. “That’s because he’s new, and customers can be rougher with the new ones.”

“I’m not so new anymore, Dr. Katsuki.”

Yuuri’s pulse quickens at the sound of the silvery voice. Breathing deep, he moves to a cage at the end of the room, keeps his hands and heart steady as he unlocks the door.

Viktor is a full-blooded Veela, with deep blue eyes, moon-bright skin, and silver hair that cascades to the floor. He was captured when a group of wizards found him alone at the edge of the forest, gazing out wistfully at the city. Naturally, he’s now the hottest item on  _L’Enchantement_ ’s menu, for Veelas are rare and coveted for their ethereal beauty. Worse, Viktor is an alpha, a secondary gender for his species that marks him as virile and domineering – traits that too many people seek in these establishments.

But Viktor is anything but domineering when he glides out of his cage, the silver of his hair gleaming in the dim lights. Yuuri swallows as Viktor’s eyes shift to him, their corners crinkling in a soft smile.

“I’ve missed you,” he says.

“R-Right, I uh…” Yuuri flounders; he can never find his words in Viktor’s presence, over the sound of his thudding heart. “I… I’ll need to check your vitals first…”

He’s about to turn back to his bag, but Viktor’s long fingers reach out to slip through his wet bangs, brushing against his forehead. Heat sears right down to Yuuri’s core, and he can’t look away from the sweep of Viktor’s lashes, the gentle warmth in his eyes.

“You’ll catch a cold like this,” Viktor murmurs.

“I’ll be fine,” Yuuri says, his voice hushed.

For a moment, Viktor looks as if he will persist, but then he nods, face soft.

Yuuri throws himself into examining Viktor, into ensuring he’s healthy, unmarred, and well, “functioning”, as the wizard owners crudely put it. It’s not right, what humans have done to these beautiful, intelligent creatures. It’s not right, and this is all Yuuri can do to help them.

When he’s done, Viktor returns to his cage, regal and elegant in his movements. He turns as Yuuri closes the door. Leans in, forehead pressed against metal, hands curling round bars.

“Come back sooner?” he says, softly.

Yuuri swallows. “I’ll try,” he says, heart skipping when Viktor draws back, mouth curved in a sweet smile.

It’s his alpha Veela charm, Yuuri reasons as he shifts to the next creature.

If only his heart doesn’t think otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	47. Pirates / Omegaverse / Crossdressing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon @ tumblr

Viktor glides the rouge over his lips, purses them together for good measure. He tilts his head, hair loose and glinting silver in the candlelight. His reflection in the mirror sports a sultry smile, the blue of his eyes dancing, the red of his lips tipped at the corners. A black choker wraps around the column of his throat, caressing fair, silky skin.  

The winds have taken them back to Port Royal, which can only mean one thing: money. 

Profits made from their looting, from selling the wares of their plunders. From dressing as women and robbing drunk sailors blind.

It’s a rather lucrative endeavor, one that not many pirates can—or want—to engage in. Viktor, on the other hand, considers this a niche just waiting to be filled, and fill it he does, with his feminine features and carefully selected omega crew.

Two hard raps on the door; Christophe’s signature knock. “Ready when you are, Captain.”

Viktor winks at his reflection, before he steps over to the double doors and pushes them open. On deck, the crew gazes up at him, each dressed in the vests and skirts of serving wenches. Besides Yuri, who looks about ready to hurl his lunch, the rest of the men are vibrating with glee, eager to be set loose on the streets and in the taverns.

“Let’s run a good rig, boys,” Viktor says. The cheers are rough and distinctly masculine.

 

* * *

 

All eyes are on them as soon as they enter the tavern.

It’s no wonder; Viktor has chosen to travel with Christophe and Yuri, and the three of them combined are a lethal brew of beauty, sensuality, and unrestrained passion. (At least, the last one is how he’d describe Yuri’s unflattering scowl, if asked.)

Viktor is performing a quick scan—only certain types of alphas and betas would fall for their ruse; drunk ones, preferably—when Christophe’s elbow nudges into his ribs.

“Navy officer, two o’clock,” his first mate says, in a low whisper.

Viktor’s eyes dart to the target in question. Dark hair slicked back, he’s seated at a corner table, gazing into his tankard as if it contains the answers of the universe. His royal naval uniform adds a flair to his brooding, accentuating the width of his shoulders, the trim line of his waist. Blue and off-white, Viktor notes with an additional thrill. The colors of high command.

“He’s mine,” Viktor purrs.

Without waiting for an answer, he weaves through the crowd and slips into the seat beside the officer. Tugs, subtly, at the edge of his ruffled off-shoulder trim, baring more skin. It has the desired effect; when the man turns, his eyes go wide, a soft blush dusting his cheeks. The scent that spikes between them marks him instantly as an alpha – and Viktor has had more than his fair share of alpha victims. 

“Hi,” Viktor says, voice set to a higher register, eyes at half-mast. He hasn’t taken his suppressants, knowing too well how lost an alpha can get in the thick, heady mist of his pheromones. “Fancy having a drink with me?”

The man swallows, throat bobbing, then averts his gaze. “Thank you, but no.”

Viktor blinks once, uncomprehending. “No?”

“No.”

Silence falls as Viktor straightens, brows furrowing. This is unexpected, unusual, unprecedented. Never has an alpha rejected him with his pheromones at full blast. Never. “Why not?” he says, his voice taking on a slight whinging tone.

The officer flushes again. “I… I turn indecent when I’m drunk, and I’d hate for you to be the brunt of that.”

This time, Viktor’s own cheeks heat up in surprise. An alpha man with chivalry; how sweet, how  _rare_. Before him is a virile omega, waiting to be taken, and he’s somehow able to restrain his basest instincts. Any other alpha would have jumped at this chance, literally, without thought. 

“But that’s precisely what I’m looking for,” Viktor says, finding it hard to ignore the way his heart thuds when the man turns back, offering a smile that lights up the dim-lit corner. His looks may not rival those of a Renaissance god, but there’s something about the warmth in the man’s brown eyes, the soft curl of his mouth, the faded scatter of freckles across the bridge of his nose. 

Something about the way he looks at Viktor that thaws even the coldest pieces of Viktor’s frozen heart.

“I don’t think you mean that,” the officer says. “Why don’t we just talk?” He ducks his head, shyly. “If you’d like to, that is.”

“Oh,” Viktor says, chest tightening. God he’s… he’s just so—…. 

“See yew lousy bums in th’ mornin’!”

As one, they turn to catch a glimpse of a drunkard on the stairs, waving goodbye to his raucous friends as Christophe shoulders him up the steps. Yuri, eyes rolled to the ceiling, trails behind them with slow, trudging movements.

“Sometimes I wonder if I should put a stop to that,” the man says with a huff of breath.

“No need.” Viktor reaches out to slip a hand over his; anything to distract the officer’s attention away from his crew members. “Let’s… talk.”

The man’s eyes widen, seconds before the smile returns with his sweet scent. Bright and beautiful and kind.

Viktor swallows. How did the seducer become the seduced?

“Names,” he says, pleased that he has managed to keep his voice steady. “Why don’t we start with names?”

The man nods. “Yuuri,” he says. “My name is Yuuri.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	48. Angels/Demons / College / Time Travel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by crimsonseer @ tumblr

Yuuri jolts awake.

He’s on a bed, he notes distantly, fingers curling into what feels like silk sheets. An antiquated and feminine bed, covered with pillows, flounces, canopies, and drapes. It’s a strange place to find himself, since all he recalls is stumbling out of a frat party in a drunken stupor. Since this is a far cry from the cramped bunk beds of his shared dorm room with Phichit.

Groaning, Yuuri drops his head in his hands, as if the action will calm the throbbing bass beats that reverberate through his mind, remnants of last night’s events. How much did he have to drink, exactly?  _Too much_ , his brain supplies without pause, helpful as always.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

Yuuri looks up, eyes wide.

There’s a head now, poking through the heavy drapes. The head of a god, it looks like, because Yuuri has never seen such beauty. His blonde hair is so light that it glints silver, the fine strands trailing down an open collar, past a perfect, well-defined collarbone. No one looked like that at the frat party. Yuuri would have burned that image into his memory, probably done something so embarrassing that no one in their right mind would have brought him home the way this god has.

Yuuri’s eyes dart up when the beautiful man—god—clears his throat, briefly distracted by the way the slender column shifts with the sound.

“Hello to you, too,” he says, with a wink.

Yuuri blushes. “Hello,” he manages after a moment.

Satisfied, the man pulls back and draws the drapes, securing them to the corners with quick fingers. Yuuri takes in the rest of the room as it’s revealed: the chests made of dark mahogany, the brass pottery and antique candlesticks, the windows with full curtains drawn at the sides. Old, he realizes, head aching like a bruise. Everything is so  _old_.

“Where am I?” Yuuri asks, before he winces. That came out more demanding than he intended.  

But the man is unfazed. “I think you mean  _when_ ,” he says, pink lips pulling into a smile.

“When?” Yuuri says, unable to comprehend.

“The year 1848,” the man answers anyway. “In old Victorian England.”

Yuuri stares at the man, lean and chic in his button-down shirt and high-waisted pants. Not in admiration of his beauty—though, all right, maybe in part—but more in shock and complete bewilderment.

The man drops a knee into the mattress, reaches out to grasp Yuuri’s chin. “You see, my dear Yuuri—” and Yuuri’s breath catches at the sound of his name in that silvery voice, the blue of those eyes piercing into his, “—you’ve been touched by an angel.”

Yuuri licks his lips, pulse leaping at the way the man’s eyes slip down to watch the slight movement of his tongue. He has so many questions, like how does the man know his name, and why is the man even talking to him, and is  _touched by an angel_  some old English way of flirting? “I still don’t understand,” he says, softly.

The rush of disappointment is instant when the man releases his chin.

“Did you see the statue of an angel on your way home?”

Yuuri blinks. “Well yeah, there’s the one at the corner of—” He stops mid-sentence, eyes going wide. He can’t remember, not everything, but there’s something now: some tingle up his spine, a strange shifting of shadows on the concrete path, and then a tap on his shoulder, cold as marble—

“You mean…” Yuuri breathes, in and out. He’s calm; he’s steady. (He’s freaking the hell out.) “You mean that statue brought me back in time?”

The man’s face softens, and he takes a seat beside Yuuri. “Angels are malevolent creatures that send their prey to a point before their birth. That way, they can feed on the potential energy of the years that their victims would have otherwise lived in the present.”

“But why Victorian England?” Yuuri tries to swallow the panic, but nothing helps, nothing works. Not even the hand of the most beautiful man alive squeezing his shoulder, soft and warm. “Why  _me_?”

“Because they know.”

“Know?” Yuuri’s voice rises to a pitch bordering on hysterics. “Know what?”

“That you’re my greatest weakness.” Before Yuuri can say another word, the man leans in, presses his lips to Yuuri’s cheek, then the other. Yuuri isn’t sure how to react, especially when the man moves closer, long fingers back on Yuuri’s chin, tilting it upwards. On instinct, Yuuri’s eyes close, his heart thudding against his chest…

“Lord Nikiforov!”

The man jerks away, hissing. Yuuri wonders, hazily, if the hint of fangs between those soft lips is nothing but a trick of light. “What have I said about knocking?”

“I’m sorry but I wanted to make sure you found your human, because I know how mad you’d get if you didn’t—”

“You do realize those wretched angels could have followed you here—”

“I was careful, Great King, I promise you—"

Even in his fuzzy state, Yuuri sees the furled wings, the horns, the smooth grey of a stone creature that shouldn’t be moving, much less talking.

The god amongst men is talking—no, arguing with a gargoyle.

Silently, Yuuri falls back against the pillows and draws the covers up to his jaw. Ignores the man’s concerned voice as he curls into a fetal position, wrenching his eyes shut.

Yes, all he needs is sleep, and his alcohol-infused brain will stop conjuring mad hallucinations of angels and gargoyles and gorgeous men that are way out of his league.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri jolts awake.

“… good evening, Master Yuuri! Lord Nikiforov is out battling angels; rather unfortunate, really, a scout must have followed me back, but not to worry, not to worry, a couple of angels is nothing to our great Demon King— are your eyes supposed to drift like that, Master Yuuri…?”

_Oh hell._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	49. Demons / Omegaverse / Coffee Shop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon @ tumblr

“So…”

Yuuri lowers the clipboard and blinks at the young boy, who sends him a scowl across the table. “Mr. Yuri Plisetsky, Grand Duke of the Dark Kingdom of Asisorith…?”

“It’s  _your grace_  to you.”

“Okay,” Yuuri says, blinking a few more times. His eyes dart down, then back up, his mouth tilting up in a hesitant smile. “We share the same first name.”

The teenager performs a full-body shudder.

Yuuri isn’t sure whether to feel insulted or not. Clearing his throat, he returns his gaze to the application. “What makes you a good fit for  _The Midnight Brew_?”

Yuri shrugs. “Because I’m a royal alpha and whatever you do, I can do better.”

Yuuri opens his mouth, closes it. Shakes his head and moves on. “How would you handle an unruly customer?”

“Smash his head in the ground till he weeps for his mother.”

_Violent tendencies_ , Yuuri scribbles on the application. Something lighter might steer this conversation in a less crazy direction. “What’s your favorite type of coffee?”

“Didn’t I answer that on the sheet already?” Yuri says, lips curling. “Or can you omegas not read?”

All right,  _now_  Yuuri feels insulted. He has no clue what an ‘omega’ is, but the implication is more than enough.

“I don’t know what you think this is, Mr. Plisetsky,” Yuuri says, ignoring the instant snap of  _I said it’s your grace!_  “But you walked in asking for a position, and that is _not_  the attitude that will get you—”

“Who wants coffee!”

Heads whirl round to the open door, where Viktor holds up a tray with two steaming hot cups of cappuccino.

Viktor Nikiforov, their newest barista. Phichit and Yuuko swear up and down that Yuuri only hired Viktor for his dazzling good looks, but really, it’s his enthusiasm and keen interest in caffeine that made him such a wonderful fit for the job. Even now, his heart-shaped smile is infectious, and Yuuri can’t help but smile back at him.

“Thank you, Viktor, but shouldn’t you be at the counter?”

“Afternoons are slow and Phichit’s got it handled,” Viktor says cheerily. He sets the cups down, tucks the tray under his arm.

And stands next to Yuuri, still beaming.

“Um,” says Yuuri. “Did you need something?”

“No, no,” Viktor says. “Merely here to observe how our potential recruit is faring.”

Across the table, Yuri’s expression hardens. He shifts, uncurling from his slumped position on the chair. Glares straight at Viktor, whose smile turns sharp at the edges, the look of a panther stalking its prey.

Yuuri can almost see a crackle of lightning in the air between them.

“Do you… know each other?” he asks, hesitantly.

“No,” the two reply in perfect unison.

“Oh,” Yuuri says. “But it seems like you—"

“Fine,” Yuri cuts in, flinging his arms up. “Ask your dumb questions so we can get this over with.”

Yuuri bristles, just as a warm hand rests on his shoulder.

“Allow me to finish the rest of the interview,” Viktor says.

“But—”

“You shouldn’t have to deal with a foul-mouthed brat with no manners.”

Yuri shoots to his feet. “ _I’m_  a brat? I’m here to drag  _you_  home – the traitor who abandoned his kingdom for some plain-faced, sweet-smelling—”

“ _Sit. Down._ ”

Something shifts in Viktor’s normally sweet cadence. His words reverberate through the room like the toll of a bell, the command so sharp, so harsh, that Yuri drops back on his seat, mouth clamped shut, sweat beading across his temple.

Yuuri stares at Viktor, eyes wide. He could’ve sworn he saw shapes that resembled wings unfolding behind Viktor. Big, black, bat-like wings.

“I’m sorry you had to witness that,” Viktor sighs.

“No, that’s um… that’s…”

…okay? Is it really okay? That one of his baristas might be some kind of vampire in disguise?

Yuuri pauses, swallows, then gives into the urge to reach up and smooth his palms across the width of Viktor’s shoulders. No wings, no odd ridges, nothing. Maybe – maybe he’s tired. Just so exhausted from all that overtime and schedule management that his mind is playing tricks on him.

Business has really been picking up since he hired Viktor.

Yuuri’s gaze returns to Viktor, who’s looking back at him, cheeks flushed a soft shade of pink.

“Yuuri?” Viktor says, voice low.

Yuuri’s heart does a little flip in his chest. What was he thinking? A manager, touching his employee like that? Although, it doesn’t look like Viktor minds, judging by the way his eyes have gone soft and warm, the way the bow of his lips has lifted at the corners.

The way he’s leaning in now, so, so close—

“Just kill me now,” Yuri groans.

When Yuuri jolts away, face red as a tomato, he definitely hears Viktor mutter under his breath, “That can be arranged, cousin.”

Just what has he gotten himself into?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	50. Robot/Android / Serial Killer / Omegaverse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon @ tumblr

Viktor Nikiforov is a slob.

There, Yuri thinks. He said it.

If Viktor’s fans could see him now- a sniveling mess surrounded by crumpled tissues and unwashed clothes -they’d wholeheartedly agree. It’s a wonder if the alpha model still has fans, after disappearing from the public eye a good six months ago.

Kicking out a path through piles of take-out boxes, Yuri storms into the bedroom and rips the cover off. Jolts back at the stench that shoots up his nostrils, strong enough to make his head spin. “Ugh, god, when was the last time you took a shower?”

Viktor, or a hollow version of Viktor, looks up at him with bloodshot eyes. Hair that used to gleam a bright silver is now matted and dull, grown to a length that shades half his face in a curtain of gray. A coarse beard climbs the width of his chin like moss on a dry rock, and if Yuri squints, he’s pretty sure he can make out pieces of dried food caught in the strands.

“Yuuri…?” Viktor croaks.

“Not the Yuuri you’re hoping for,” Yuri snaps. “Go take a long,  _really_ long bath, while I clear out this…” He gingerly holds up a soiled container between his thumb and forefinger. “… _shit_  for you.”

There’s a rustle as Viktor burrows back under the covers.

Yuri swallows the insults on the tip of his tongue. He could be doing something fun right now, like choreographing a new dance routine, or eating  _pirozhki_  with his grandfather. But no, nope, he just couldn’t say no to those big brown eyes.

“Yuuri sent me,” he spits out.

Instantly, the covers fly off, and Yuri is jerked forward until he’s nose to nose with a mad caveman that used to be his role model. 

“You’ve spoken to Yuuri?” Viktor says, eyes wild. “What did he say? Did he say anything about me? I-Is he… is he willing to meet with me—”

“Only when he’s ready.” Yuri swats Viktor’s hand off his collar. “Count yourself lucky, asshole. You would’ve been dumped so hard by now if I were him.”

Viktor wilts onto the mattress, chest shuddering as he draws in a deep breath.

Yuri’s hands curl into fists. He hates seeing Viktor like this. Hates seeing either of his friends like this. They were happy. Married and blissful and so in love. Then Viktor had to ruin everything. Viktor and his stupid alpha ruts, who got himself caught by the scent of another omega at last year’s Christmas party. (“S-Sorry to interrupt,” Yuuri had said, brown eyes glistening, deaf to Viktor’s pleas as he darted through the door and out of Viktor’s life.)

Scowling, Yuri slaps a hand across Viktor’s head. “Get up. The least you can do is look presentable if Yuuri decides to forgive you.”

A beat, before Viktor’s head lifts. “Will he…?”

“He cares enough to ensure you’re alive, so yes.” Yuri rolls his eyes. “Unfortunately.”

At that, Viktor  _finally_  slithers out of his nest of garbage and into the bathroom.

Yuri releases his breath;  _Yuuri fucking owes him._

Slowly, he begins cleaning the apartment to the faint sounds of the television in the background. The news, he realizes. Something about another body found rotting in an apartment and covered in stab wounds. “ _I hardly see her step outside_ ,” says a neighbor, voice altered to a high-pitched squeak. “ _Bit of a quiet one_ ,” says another.

Yuri turns to the screen in time to catch the newscaster’s grim expression.

“ _Besides the victims being social recluses, the police have no other leads on this strange series of brutal murders. They urge citizens to share any information they may have—_ “

The doorbell rings, cutting into the broadcast.

Viktor’s head pops through the bathroom door, hair damp with a silver sheen. “That’s the pizza I ordered.” His chin trembles. “Yuuri’s favorite.”

Ugh, Yuri thinks. Yuuri owes him  _big_.

Muttering, he heads for the front door, throws it open. “Just tell me how much I owe you and I’ll—”

Yuri stops mid-sentence, throat catching on his words. Delivery bots are blonds with eyes as wide and striking as uncut gems, but this one is different. This one has dark hair styled in an undercut and eyes narrowed in half-slits, as if its designer had gone through a goth phase or some sort of existential crisis.

This one is kind of hot.

“You are not Viktor Nikiforov,” the bot says, head tilted.

Yuri scoffs. “No, thank the gods for that. He’s in the bathroom so I— _is that a knife_?”

The bot raises its right arm, the blade glinting in the air. “All witnesses must be eliminated,” it says.

 _Always the hot ones_ , is Yuri’s last rational thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	51. Ancient Egypt / Slavery / Assassin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by sumi-ink-ninja @ tumblr or warrior nun @ ao3

He’s beautiful.

It may be the exotic slant of his features, or simply the way his bare thighs shift and ripple with every move. But the new slave possesses an allure that rivals the ethereal airs of Qetesh. His previous owner was just as breathtaking, with the high arch of his cheekbones complementing the blue of his eyes, the silver of his hair. It’s almost strange, how eager the man was to rid of such exquisiteness from the Orient, but Iahmesu is not one to question good fortune.

Especially not when the new slave keeps sneaking glances at him, eyes half-lidded and smoldering as the rising flames of a crackling fire. It sends shivers skittering up Iahmesu’s spine, makes him wish they were alone in his chambers.

“This feels funny!”

Ah, but they’re not alone. Not until he has fulfilled his duties to the people.

Sighing, Iahmesu pulls his gaze off the slave. “It might sting a bit,” he says, plastering on a smile as he ruffles the little girl’s hair. “But you have to keep chewing on it for the plant to work.”

The girl sticks her tongue out, nose wrinkling. “Don’t like it. Makes my tongue all weird.”

“Can’t you give her something sweet?” the child’s mother demands. “She’ll never take the medicine otherwise.”

Iahmesu bites the inside of his cheek, reigning in his temper.  _This_  is why he has no qualms about testing the new herbs on his patients. Ungrateful, sniveling fools, the whole lot of them. And the audacity of this woman, questioning  _him_  – royal physician to the mighty Pharaoh Himself.

Still, he must earn their trust, so he can study the effects of those herbs when they return. Ensure the safety of their use for the Pharaoh. So, his smile doesn’t falter, not even a flicker, when he beckons the new slave over.

“Go to the kitchens and fetch me a pot of honey,” he instructs.

The slave bows, eyes locked on his, gazing at him through long eyelashes. “Is there anything else I can get for you,” his voice dips, soft and crooning, “Master?”

Under the table, Iahmesu’s fingers dig into his thigh. “Th– that will be all,” he says, silently congratulating himself for keeping his voice steady. For the most part. “Oh,” he starts again, just as the slave turns to leave. “And come to my chambers once you have performed your duties.”

The slave’s pink lips pull into a smirk. “As you wish.”

 

* * *

 

“You summoned me, Master?”

There. The fall of his eyelashes, the soft flush on his cheeks. Iahmesu had spent a good part of the day envisioning that in his mind’s eye, as he thought about the slave riding him, up and down, head tipped back and thighs straining, harsh pants filling the still air of his bed chambers.

Now, finally, they are alone. And Iahmesu can indulge.

“I was told that you are an excellent dancer.”

The slave lifts his head. “One of the finest,” he says. His gaze is intense, molten. Singing Iahmesu’s insides in a way no other slave has ever done. He has grown accustomed to the weeping and begging, to taking what he wants from those who should thank the gods for earning his divine attention.

But this boldness, this sensuality – this is new.

This is  _exhilarating_.

“Dance for me,” the physician says. “Ah-ah,” he amends, as the slave rises to his feet and raises his arms. “Not there.” He pets his thighs. “Here.”

Something flashes across the slave’s face, too fast to catch. Then, he obeys. Prowls up to drop a knee on the mattress and spread his thighs, sinking down, the curve of his ass pressed firmly against— Iahmesu’s breath stutters, heat pulsing through his veins.

“Like this?” the slave purrs, breath gusting against his ear.

Iahmesu lets out a harsh exhale, brackets the slave’s hips with his hands. He can’t decide whether to savor this, or to grind up into the warm heat, over and over until he adorns the slave’s wispy garments with his come. Quenching the thirst that has distracted him for most of the afternoon. With those devilish fingers dancing along the line of his shoulders, down the plane of his chest, the latter sounds far, far more enticing.

“Your last owner has trained you well,” Iahmesu manages.

The slave chuckles, brown eyes dancing in the light of the fires. “Shall I show you what else he has taught me?”

Pain is the last thing Iahmesu expects– sharp, excruciating pain, his screams tearing through the chambers –when the slave rams a blade straight through the flesh of his hand, pinning it to the headrest affixed to his bed frame.

_Where could he have hidden the knife?_

“How dare you- attacking a royal physician—” He gurgles, spittle flying. “Your head will roll for this! Guards!  _Guards_!”

“I’m afraid your guards have been touched by the hand of Osiris.”

Iahmesu’s eyes bulge out of his skull as a man steps out of the shadows, a giant bow slung over one shoulder. He recognizes the head of silver hair, the strange combination of cloth and leather. The slave owner who sold him his attacker. “ _You_ ,” he gasps, but the man ignores him, drifting over to his slave instead.

“Viktor,” the slave says, his face going soft.

“Yuuri,” the man sighs, as if the name itself is a benediction. He reaches up, caresses the slave’s cheek with a knuckle. “He didn’t touch you, did he?”

“Enough for him to let his guard down.”

Viktor’s eyes narrow at Iahmesu, who cringes at the murderous intent in his stare. Wordlessly, the foreigner pulls out a gauntlet from inside his clothes, heavy and intricately designed. Hands it to the slave– Yuuri –who slides it up his forearm, buckling it with deft moves. In any other situation, Iahmesu would have given in to laughter; a slave, naked and dressed in gauzy linen, strapping on armor like a soldier going into battle.

Until, with a smile sharpened at the edges, Yuuri flexes his wrist.

Blood is dribbling from Iahmesu’s wound, the pain now radiating down his arm, across his shoulders. But none of that compares to the sheer terror that fills him at the sound of a hidden blade shearing through metal.

He has heard stories. Of vigilantes seeking their own brand of justice, of officials falling to this very blade.

He’s not ready. He’s too young—too accomplished—to die such a pathetic, gruesome death.

“W-What do you want from me? Money? Status? Power?” The royal physician starts to laugh, delirious from fear and blinding agony. “I have the Pharaoh’s ear! I can give you anything –  _anything_  you desire—”

Yuuri hums. “Can you bring back the women and children you’ve killed with your heartless experiments? Or the slaves you raped and tortured to death?”

Iahmesu’s mouth moves, without sound.

“Didn’t think so.” Yuuri leans in, presses the cold edge of the blade against Iahmesu’s cheek. “Hold still,” he croons. “This might sting a bit.”

The last thing Iahmesu hears is Viktor’s laugh, soft and fond and proud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	52. Roommate / Omegaverse / Medical

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon @ tumblr

It’s embarrassing, is what it is.

When your alleged best friend loads you with so many fizzy cocktails that you attempt an advanced pole dance move that sends you spinning upside down—and smashing headfirst into the ground.

Yuuri remembers the two-second blackout, the static, the sudden return of sound and sensation. Someone shakes him, yelling something unintelligible beneath the pounding bass, before he’s yanked to his feet and dragged out of the club. The noise fades, and he realizes that it’s Phichit he’s leaning against and—oh, the lines of Phichit’s face are swimming.

So here he is now, sitting on an examination table and painfully sober.

He lifts his fingers to knead his brow, then thinks the better of it. Phichit didn’t see any blood— _not on the outside_ , he said, his voice just a little too bright—but it was apparently one hell of a fall.

Two years shy of thirty, and he’s acting like he’s back in college.

It’s embarrassing, is what it is.

The door opens, and the shape of a man drifts in.

“Hello, Mr. Yuu—”

The words are cut off by a sharp intake of breath. Yuuri squints, trying hard to make out why the blurry shape has stopped moving, frozen some distance from the table. “Is everything okay?” he asks, timidly.

“Yes. Yes! I just wasn’t expecting someone so…” The man trails off, clears his throat, and tries again. “I’m Viktor, your doctor for today. I understand you’ve taken a hard fall on your head?”

“Yes,” Yuuri says, heat rising to his cheeks. He lied to the nurse that he tripped down a flight of stairs, but the truth still sets his insides on fire. “I can’t see too well, so my friend thought it best for me to come in.”

“Well,” Viktor says, voice going soft and low. “I’m glad you did.”

God, Yuuri thinks when his heart skips a beat. Those cocktails must have lingering effects. This is an emergency room, the last place for any form of flirting whatsoever. Besides, he can’t even see how Viktor looks; the good doctor could be wrinkled and balding and not at all Yuuri’s type.

 _But his voice sure plays like the rich sound of an oboe_ , supplies the devil in his mind before Yuuri squashes it back down.

Viktor must be referring to his head wound.

“Does it look bad?” Yuuri says, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth.

Another quiet inhale. “No, you look good. I mean—your head.” Even the blurry form manages to look as flustered as Viktor sounds. “Your head looks good— _fine_. Your head looks  _fine_.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says, flushing. So maybe it isn’t the cocktails.

It takes a moment for Viktor to settle into something that resembles professionalism and some level of dignity. The rest of visit runs smoothly, though Yuuri can’t help but wonder if Viktor’s fingers needed to linger on his face for quite that long during the physical exam.

 

* * *

 

“Was he an alpha?”

“I had a mild concussion.” Yuuri turns to Seung-gil, eyebrows raised. “The doctor’s secondary was the least of my worries.”

Seung-gil’s eyes roll upwards. “As an omega, that should always be a concern.”

They’re seated side by side on the couch, waiting for the next interviewee to Seung-gil’s thorough and systematic interrogation. Seung-gil is moving out in two weeks, having secured a position at a local law firm in his hometown. And within these two weeks, he’s determined to find his replacement before he leaves because Yuuri is “too damn soft”. Phichit calls Seung-gil a control freak, but Yuuri is grateful—this way, he knows he’ll have a responsible roommate.

Or, at least, one as neat and neurotic as Seung-gil.

“Boundaries,” Seung-gil says, as if Yuuri has no clue what that means. “Should’ve made them clear before you let him touch you.”

“He was a doctor,” Yuuri says with a laugh. “Checking to make sure my concussion wasn’t anything serious.”

Seung-gil sniffs. “You talk as if an alpha doctor has never violated an omega patient.”

“I smelled nothing from him.”

“Then he at least has the sense to take suppressants.” Seung-gil glances down at his watch, brows furrowing. “Candidate #23 is late.”

Yuuri shrugs. “Maybe he’s—”

The front door slams open. “So sorry, I was on call and an emergency came up…”

— _beautiful,_  Yuuri thinks, eyes going wide.

Looking up through silver bangs, the man’s smile is as bright as the blue of his eyes. His cheekbones are high and prominent, set above a chiseled jawline that Yuuri’s fingers itch to trace the line of, feel the smoothness of his skin. Candidate #23 sets his briefcase down and sinks into the armchair across from the couch, one leg—impossibly long—crossing over the other. Seconds before he locks gazes with Yuuri.

“Oh,” he says, face lighting up. “Yuuri! I had no idea this was your apartment. I hope your vision has improved with rest!”

Yuuri shakes out of his trance. “I—I’m sorry, have we met?”

Light dims in the blue eyes—or maybe just in Yuuri’s imagination. “Of course, you couldn’t see properly at the time.”

Wait, how would he know that? Unless he’s—

“Mr. Viktor Nikiforov,” Seung-gil says, the tip of his pen tapping impatiently against the clipboard. “May we begin the interview, or do you intend to waste more of our precious time?”

“Again, I’m very sorry,” Viktor says, holding his palms up. His gaze slides back to Yuuri, soft and warm. “Just wanted to check in with your lovely friend here.”

_Voice like the rich sound of an oboe._

Yes, it’s Viktor.  _That_  Viktor. The man who stuttered before him and said he looked good. Who slid fingers down his cheeks, his jaw, lingering against heated skin.

Who’s everything  _but_ wrinkled and balding and not his type.

Yuuri turns red.

Seung-gil watches them for a moment. Then, leaning forward, he jabs his pen at Viktor.

“You’re an alpha, aren’t you?”

“ _Seung-gil_ ,” Yuuri says, mortified.

Viktor lets out a low chuckle. “Is that a problem?”

“It is when your potential roommate is an omega with the survival instinct of a radish,” Seung-gil says, unfazed by Yuuri’s sharp jab to the side.

Viktor looks as if he was given an early Christmas present. “Yuuri is an omega?”

Yuuri ducks his head, brushing the bangs out of his eyes. Viktor’s own eyes follow the movement with a deep intensity that makes Yuuri’s heart perform somersaults. “I, um, I take suppressants for my performances…”

Viktor opens his mouth but Seung-gil beats him to it.

“Yuuri’s a musician. Which in his case means irregular hours, untidiness, and a fairly absent mind.”

“Thanks,” Yuuri mutters.

Seung-gil ignores him, cold stare boring into Viktor. “Regardless, your status as an alpha means I will have more questions for you.”

Viktor leans back, mouth tugging into a smirk. “I’m all yours for the hour,” he says. There’s a whiff of musk in the air now, earthy and sensual—an unmistakable scent that screams alpha and leaves Yuuri’s fingers digging into his thighs.

What happened to the flustered doctor in the examination room?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	53. Omegaverse / Heavy on the biting / Office

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by i-am-anime-trash-and-i-love-it @ tumblr

An awkward confession and twelve dates later, Yuuri learns something new about his boss.

Viktor bites.

No, not one of those teasing little love nips. Full-on teeth-sinking, blood-drawing bites—deep in his shoulder, his collarbone, his thighs. A couple of marks and bruises are perfectly fine for Yuuri, so long as they’re hidden well beneath his clothes. The last thing he wants is for his co-workers to find out that he’s doing the man who determines their annual performance bonuses.

He tells Viktor as much. Several times.

And yet—

“Viktor,” Yuuri gasps.

He can’t see Viktor’s smile, but he feels it on the crook of his neck, against the fresh bite marks across his skin. “What is it, my love?”

“I told you, nowhere visible.”

Viktor gives a low chuckle that rumbles through Yuuri. “Does it matter?” Palm on Yuuri’s thigh, he hitches it higher as he pulls out and thrusts back in, drawing another sharp gasp. “You’ll walk out of here covered in my scent anyway.”

“Not the betas. They can’t –  _ah_ , they can’t…” Yuuri trails off in a groan, fingernails digging into Viktor’s back. Humming, Viktor rocks in again, without pause, against that one spot that makes him see stars.  

“With all the noise you’re making,” Viktor whispers, “Even our scent-challenged beta colleagues must know the truth behind our ‘business meetings’.”

Yuuri huffs, indignant. “I’m not—” He chokes off mid-sentence, eyelashes fluttering, when the next thrust drives him further up the wall.

To be fair, Yuuri started this. He had walked in with every intention of going over the new budget report, but there’s just something about the way Viktor’s face went soft and pleased when he entered, the way the blue of Viktor’s eyes danced in the light of his office. As if  _he_ —plain old boring Yuuri—hung the moon and the stars. It stirred the heat in his gut, made him want to touch Viktor and remind himself that this was real.

And so he did. After prudently locking the door behind him.

Viktor sighs, a gust of air against his cheek. “Do you know how you look right now? How you smell?” He sinks in deep, and Yuuri shudders, head falling back. “I want them to know you’re mine. I want them  _all_ to know.”

“Viktor,” Yuuri says, voice hoarse. “Viktor, wait—”

Hot breath ghosts over his scent gland. It’s all the warning Yuuri gets before he feels the sting of teeth breaking skin, the thrum of pleasure shooting through his veins.

He might have screamed. Would have, really, if he hadn’t yanked Viktor close, sinking his own teeth into Viktor’s shoulder. Against him, he hears the hitch in Viktor’s breathing, feels the tightening of his grip on his thigh and hip, and then Viktor is coming, and the feel of it is enough for Yuuri to join him in a free fall over the edge.

For a while, the room is quiet save for their breathing. Yuuri’s legs are trembling, and he’s sure Viktor is the only thing holding him up somehow.

“Wow,” Viktor says. He smiles down at Yuuri, cheeks flushed and eyes full of delight, the edge of his shoulder glistening red from Yuuri’s bite. “Wow.”

“Was it that good?” Yuuri says, blushing.

When Viktor nuzzles against his neck with a sigh, Yuuri learns something else about his boss.

Viktor bites—and he loves being bitten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	54. Actors / Arranged Marriage / Mafia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon @ tumblr

A shrill ring jolts him awake.

Light creeps through the curtains, cool and grey, and in the warm bed, in his arms, Yuuri shifts. The covers slip to the curve of his hip, revealing silken skin speckled with dark marks—a reminder of last night, that this is real, here, finally.

Viktor takes a moment to marvel his handiwork, fingers lovingly trailing each mark, before he drops a kiss into Yuuri’s hair and reaches for his phone. “ _Manager G”_  flashes big and white and bold on the screen, as accusing as the persistent rings.

Sliding out from under the covers, Viktor thumbs the screen as he throws on a bathrobe and strides to the bathroom.

“Hey,” he whispers, pulling the door shut behind him.

“Hey, he says.” Chris’s voice, though chiding, is tinged with amusement. “I turn away for one second, and poof! You’ve disappeared.”

“Sorry,” Viktor chuckles. He turns to his reflection in the mirror, smiles at the traces of Yuuri’s mouth and tongue near his collarbone, down the plane of his chest. “Something came up.”

“That something better be Yuuri,” Chris drawls. “Five years, Viktor.  _Five years_.”

Viktor breathes, heart drumming slow, steady, warm in his chest. 

Five whole years since he took one glance at Yuuri Katsuki and fell into the man’s shy smile and long eyelashes. They met on an acting gig—just a short advertisement for a certain big-name clothing brand—and time had stopped for Viktor ever since.

(Viktor would’ve asked Yuuri out, easily, casually, if it weren’t for the ring on his fourth finger. A simple gold band, it glinted in the light every time Yuuri moved his hands, taunting and sharp as a knife to Viktor’s heart.

They exchanged phone numbers, met for lunch, coffee, movies, brunch. Brushed against each other, slipping in soft smiles, at Met nights, galas, and annual award shows.

Each time, Yuuri didn’t mention a partner.

Each time, Viktor didn’t ask.

Until last night, after Viktor won his fifth award, and Yuuri his first. Best actor and best supporting actor— _like we’re made for each other,_  Yuuri had murmured into his ear during the afterparty, alcohol heavy on his breath. Viktor had grasped his wrist when those nimble fingers ventured to his belt buckle.

“You’re married,” he said, and the two words sunk with him, deep into the pit of his stomach. It’s out, it’s there, and there was no denying the truth any longer. “You’re married,” he said again, voice straining past the lump in his throat.

Yuuri frowned.  “Am I?”

In Viktor’s chest, hope sprung anew like a bud in spring. “Are you not?”

“Only on paper.”

Viktor tightened his grip on Yuuri’s wrist. “Explain.”

“It was arranged by our parents. For the families, good investment, something along those lines.” Yuuri shrugged, dropped his head against Viktor’s shoulder. “She has a lover.”

“Oh,” Viktor said, and cleared his throat after a little crack in his voice made the word shake. “But do you love her?”

Yuuri’s eyes lifted to meet his. “No.”

Viktor’s heart skipped a beat. Carefully, he pushed a lock of hair out of Yuuri’s face and tucked it behind his ear. Leaned in, thumb smoothing down Yuuri’s cheek, resting on his jaw. It shouldn’t feel right, doing this with a married man, but somehow—somehow, it  _did_.

And it was all Viktor wanted.

“Then,” he whispered, trembling with anticipation as Yuuri gazed back at him through his lashes. “I’m going to kiss you.”

“Please,” Yuuri said.)

“—tor, earth to Viktor. You have a photoshoot in an hour—”

“I’ll be there,” Viktor says, hanging up before Chris can get another word in. He wants nothing more than to curl around Yuuri in bed, and that’s exactly what he’s going to do, annoyed manager or not.  

When he steps out of the bathroom, Yuuri is up, hair tousled and eyes still half-lidded with sleep.

“Morning,” he says, his voice washing over Viktor, soft and sweet.

Viktor slips back under the covers and tugs Yuuri close, breath catching when Yuuri presses into him with a sigh. “Slept well?”  

“Mmhm.” Yuuri’s mouth curves in a smile against his neck. “You?”

“Really well,” he says, fingers skating across the wing of Yuuri’s shoulder and down his back. They pause, hovering, over the rough surface of a blue dragon inked into otherwise flawless skin.

Viktor is fine with tattoos; he has had lovers with patterns and designs carved into their ankle, or hip, or shoulder. But Yuuri’s dragon unfurls across his back like a hanging tapestry, scales shifting with the movement of Yuuri’s muscles.

“Is this why you rarely go topless in front of the camera?” Viktor murmurs.

Yuuri nods. “Only when they want me to play a  _yakuza_  member. I mean,” he laughs quietly, “I did win an award for that role.”

Viktor huffs, dropping a kiss on Yuuri’s forehead. “I wish you had more parts to play than some generic Asian stereotype.”

Yuuri smiles up at him and there’s something so tender in it that Viktor melts. Five years; he could have had this for five years. And Viktor fully intends to make up for all the time they’ve lost.

“So,” Yuuri says after a moment.

“Hm?” Viktor nuzzles his nose into Yuuri’s hair.

“About the  _yakuza_  thing…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	55. Sports (dance) / Time Travel / Slavery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon @ tumblr

It’s supposed to be an easy job.

Shoot the bagged criminal in the head, dispose the body, exchange the silver bars for cash. No expectations, and no Yakov on his back, telling him what to do, what not to do. Simple, uncomplicated—just the way Viktor likes it.

Just the thing he needs right now.

Cocking his shotgun, Viktor makes his way to the designated spot. There, he waits, eyes trained ahead of him, gun barrel pointed forward. The loop opens right on the dot, and he wants to make a clean shot. Even criminals deserve a quick death, not riddled with holes from a bad aim.  

Sure enough, at the hour, the portal slits open—

—and a man, unbound and  _not_  bagged, topples out.

Viktor stares down at the man, who looks back at him with wide eyes. He’s dressed in tattered rags like the others, hair matted and skin caked with grime, but something in those eyes—those bright, honey-brown eyes—makes Viktor’s finger hover inches from the trigger, heart riotous in his chest.

It’s a lot easier to kill, he realizes, when you can’t see their faces.

The man swallows, throat bobbing. “Viktor,” he whispers, just as the portal over his head fizzles out and vanishes.

Slowly, Viktor lowers his shotgun, eyes growing large.

 

* * *

 

He takes the man to a nearby diner. Orders a bunch of dishes and watches, mildly fascinated, as the man proceeds to wolf down the food like there’s no tomorrow. On closer inspection, Viktor can see the way the man’s hair might have once shone a silken black, the way his too-thin frame may have once held soft curves and softer skin. There’s a hint of beauty beneath the dirt and filth, and Viktor wonders what the man has done to have fallen this far.

“So,” Viktor says, above the sounds of rapid chewing. “What’s your name?”

The man hesitates, cheeks bulging. “Yuuri,” he says after a hard swallow.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says. “Okay.” He breathes in, then out. This is a first for him. For anyone, really—not once has he heard of an execution going this awry. He has questions, and he doesn’t quite know where to begin. After a moment’s consideration, he decides: the least revealing question might just be best.

“Why weren’t you bagged?”

Yuuri hunches his shoulders, making him look even more cramped in the small booth. “I escaped,” he says, softly. “With help.”

Of course, he did. “What were you charged with?” Viktor asks.

Yuuri’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing. “What are you—” At Viktor’s startled look, he cuts off mid-sentence, as if someone had thrown a punch to his gut. “Right,“ he mutters, more to himself. "He didn’t know when I first met him, either.”

“Who,” Viktor starts to ask, but Yuuri shakes his head.

“It’s nothing,” he says. “Just know that I’m not a criminal.”

Viktor arches an eyebrow. “What would you call yourself then?”

“A dancer,” Yuuri says, and sorrow flickers, once, in his eyes. He shifts his gaze to his lap again, the side of his jaw pulled tight. “Or I used to be, until I was caught and forced to serve the whims of my master.”

“Master?” Viktor inhales, sharply. “You mean you—”

“We’re replaceable,” Yuuri bites out. “That’s what we’re told every time someone dares to disobey.” He exhales, a heavy gust of air. “Every time someone disappears through the portal and never returns.”

Viktor stares at him, blood turning to ice. If Yuuri is telling the truth, if he hasn’t done anything to deserve death—if none of them have—then how many innocents has Viktor shot between the eyes, innocents who have lived in captivity, only to find freedom in the face of death?

Viktor curls his fists, feels the nails break through skin. He kept this next question for last because he was afraid.

Afraid of what the future holds for him.

“How,” he says, voice catching. Shaking. “How do you know my name?”

When Yuuri lifts his eyes to meet Viktor’s, his smile is soft and so very fond that Viktor’s heart clenches. “For starters,” he says. "You’re the one who helped me escape.”

So much for an easy job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	56. Selkie AU P1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon @ tumblr. Not part of the 3 prompt au series, but decided to add it to this collection! :3

Late, late, late; he is  _so_  late.

Yuuri’s boots pound against the cobbles as he sprints down the streets. Setting that second alarm clock was a giant failure; he slept through the shrill screams of  _both_  clocks until his neighbor kicked his door down and promised a slow, painful death if he didn’t turn the goddamn things off. He really ought to consider Phichit’s suggestion for a night shift.

One hand on his tweed cap, Yuuri dodges round a lady, her hoop skirt covered with layers of frills. Tips his cap in greeting when her parasol tips to one side and she rests a hand on curved lips, lashes lowering coyly. It used to surprise him, just how many people are out and about at this time of day. While the rich and the foreign wander the town center with their fur coats and gold-plated walking canes, the average citizen is working—struggling—to make ends meet. 

Or they would be, if they got to their shift a good half-hour ago.

Yuuri’s rounding the corner when he slams, hard, into something—no, someone—that lets out an “oh!” in surprise. Yuuri flails as he stumbles, as he feels the pull of gravity tilting him backwards. His cap slips off and he sucks in a breath, bracing for impact against the rough pavement.

Only – none comes.

Strong hands grip his hips and yank him upright. Brings him face-to-face with silver hair that cascades past a set of lean shoulders, pink lips that curl in the shape of a heart, and the brightest, bluest eyes he has ever seen, an ocean so deep and vast that he loses his breath in their depths.

A foreigner. Only someone from across the sea would sport eyes of such color, such vibrancy.

“Are you all right?” the beautiful man asks.

Dazed, Yuuri nods, realizing belatedly that the man is still holding him, and his cap is on the ground with the man’s coat, and oh, that’s right,  _he is so late_.

“Sorry, I wasn’t looking and I…” Blushing, he snatches up the thick coat—light as air despite the heavy appearance—and shoves it into the man’s arms. “…here!”

“Oh,” the man says, blue eyes growing wide. “You—”

But Yuuri doesn’t hear the rest of the words; he’s already darting away, the slap of his boots echoing off the cobblestones.

* * *

“Seriously, Yuuri. Night. Shift.”

Yuuri flushes as Phichit grins at him, wide and knowing. There are perks to having his best friend as the postmaster, with leniency being one of them. Still, Yuuri has consistently punched in late since his first day at the post office, and he would hate for Phichit to be dismissed on the grounds of favoritism. “I’m sorry, I really am—”

“I know you are. Don’t worry about it.” Phichit nods toward the bags of mail piled up in the corner. “Better start now, or you’ll never finish your deliveries in time.”

“Right, of course.”

“Hey,” Phichit says as Yuuri grabs a bag in each hand. “Not wearing your lucky cap today?”

Yuuri frowns, then, “Oh! I dropped it when I bumped into a foreigner on my way here.”

“Sounds like a story,” Phichit says, eyes sparkling.

“Tell you after work,” Yuuri says over his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

It’s past midnight when Yuuri staggers back to his apartment near the beach, on the outskirts of their sleepy seaside town. Phichit had taken him to a tavern by the post office, bought him dinner and an endless stream of booze. After a day’s ride, peddling across town, it’s easy to indulge. Easier, still, when it’s his best friend, and said best friend coaxes and urges him to chug, chug, chug.

Now, stumbling about the dark streets lit by the occasional lamp, he feels like singing. About his mediocre home, his mediocre job, his mediocre  _life_. After the accident, after his dreams shattered along with his ankle, he no longer has what it takes to be anything more than mediocre, and he has accepted this new reality, he really has. But that doesn’t mean he’s  _happy_  about it.

Well, says a voice in his head. That second alarm isn’t going to work tomorrow, either.

Yuuri has belted out several verses of his woes by the time his apartment complex looms in sight. And he might have added a few more—about the chipping paint of the wretched old building, the constantly creaking floors—if there weren’t a familiar figure rising from the entrance steps, silver hair glowing in the light of the streetlamp.

The beautiful foreigner, with the ocean-blue eyes.

Heart thudding, Yuuri walks up to him, hesitant and shy and suddenly, impossibly, sober. “A-Are you lost?” he says. “I can help you find your way if you are.”

“No, no,” the man says, the corner of his eyes crinkling in a smile. The thick coat hangs across the width of his shoulders, draped light and loose over the simple garb of a white shirt and dark pants. “I have found exactly what I am looking for.”

He raises his arms, and Yuuri’s breath catches at the sight of the tweed cap cupped carefully in the palm of his hands.

“You came all this way, just to return that to me?”

The man cocks his head in thought. “Yes and no.” His smile spreads when Yuuri’s eyebrows furrow together. “While I am here to return your cap—” he reaches out, curves a hand, softly, round Yuuri’s cheek, “—I am also here to accept your marriage proposal.”

Yuuri blinks a few times, before his addled brain catches up to the words.

“Accept my  _what_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	57. Selkie AU P2

The beautiful foreigner is inside his apartment.  _The beautiful foreigner is inside his apartment._

Yuuri closes the door behind him, a hand to his forehead. He couldn’t say no. There was just something about the man, about the way the silver of his hair shimmers like stars, the way the blue of his eyes shifts like waves in the open ocean. It felt… magical. Surreal.

Those same eyes are wide as the foreigner glides in, taking in Yuuri’s hovel of an apartment. Yuuri can’t tell if he’s shocked or just curious, but his eyes flick about the cramped room, from the cluttered table and chairs, the rolled-up futon, to the small kitchen stove and piles and piles of books and miscellaneous items in one corner.

“Oh!” he gasps, darting to the corner without warning.

Yuuri’s heart ceases when the foreigner reaches past the piles, past the books, for—

“ _Don’t–_ …” He swallows back a lump of guilt as the foreigner freezes, smile falling. “…touch that,” he finishes lamely. Stepping over to the corner, Yuuri retrieves the item with careful hands and holds it up for the man to see. “I didn’t mean to yell. This is just… really precious to me.”

The foreigner nods. “What is it?”

“A trophy,” Yuuri says, fingers tightening round the handles. The gold had long faded into a dull copper. “From a dance competition.”

“You dance?” the foreigner says as the blue in his eyes sparkles, sunlight on a cresting wave.

And Yuuri can only flush, struck by the beauty before him, the keen enthusiasm. The stab of humiliation at his past failures. “I used to,” he says, returning the trophy to its hidden spot in the corner.

The foreigner opens his mouth, sure to ask the ever-dreaded question of  _what happened_ , so Yuuri hastily ushers him to a chair and offers a cup of tea. Not that it gives him much space; the stove is but a few steps from where the man now sits. But Yuuri makes a great production of it all the same, filling the kettle and lighting the stove with loud clatters.

“Why don’t we start with names,” he says above the din. “I’m—”

“Yuuri,” the foreigner says, his smile bright and sweet. “It was inside your cap, and the nice man at the fish stall taught me how to read it.”

Yuuri pauses. “You can’t read?”

“Not in your language, no.”

Right, of course.

Kettle set, Yuuri turns to lean against the edge of the stove, hands clasping together. “What is your name then?” he asks.

The foreigner considers the question for a moment. “I suppose it would be ‘Viktor’ in your language.”

“All right, Viktor.” Yuuri can’t help but match Viktor’s smile; the delight in it is infectious. “Where are you from?”

“The sea,” Viktor says.

“You mean across the sea?”

“Just the sea.”

Yuuri stares at Viktor, who gazes back at him with warm eyes, silver bangs falling across his forehead, the pink bow of his mouth curved just so. He’s telling the truth, as far as Yuuri can discern, so something must be lost in translation.

Just like the marriage proposal.

Viktor had explained it as they climbed the steps to the apartment, something about the return of his coat being Yuuri’s unspoken proposal. Unwitting, really, in Yuuri’s perspective.

Shaking his head, Yuuri reaches up to rub the back of his neck, a habit that comes with frayed nerves. Times like these, he wishes Yuuko were here. She always knew just what to say in these moments, what to do to calm him. As it is, there are miles between them now, with Yuuko training to be a baker in some faraway city, the first step toward her dream of owning a bakery. It’s everything Yuuko deserves, and he’s not about to fill her mind with unnecessary worry, with some problem that he’s more than capable of solving on his own.

“Look,” Yuuri starts, breathing deep. “About the proposal thing, our um… our customs are different. Very different.”

Viktor’s head bobs in a nod. “I am aware! I’ve heard that your culture requires the exchange of rings, is that right?”

“It’s not just the rings, it’s…” Yuuri falters, caught again by the soft, sun-speckled waters in Viktor’s eyes. “…it’s… about love. About knowing the other person, _really_ knowing them, their flaws and weaknesses and imperfections. And I- I don’t think you’d…” He swallows, fingers digging into his neck. “…I don’t think you’ll like what you’d find in me.”

For a while, Viktor says nothing, just looks at Yuuri with his head tilted, his mouth soft, his eyes still strangely alight. The silence drags on for so long that it looks as if he has given up, as if he has taken in Yuuri’s words and discovered that he can, indeed, do so much better.

But then he leans forward and speaks, in a voice tinged with fondness.

“I would be honored for the chance to love you.”

Yuuri’s breath hitches, and there’s a spike of something warm in his chest, the embers of a fledging flame cradled in the hollow chambers of his heart. Suddenly, it doesn’t seem so far-fetched, this idea of marriage. Of having Viktor stay with him and remind him what it means to be loved.

Right then, the shrill whistle of the kettle fills the apartment.

Swiping at his eyes, Yuuri turns the stove off and pulls out cups from the cabinet above. They’re old and chipped at the edges, but he has a feeling Viktor wouldn’t mind. “How do you take your tea?” he asks, hands shaking slightly as he tips the kettle, fills the cups with steaming water.

“I will take anything you can offer,” Viktor says, and Yuuri’s heart trips.

 

* * *

 

It’s Phichit’s scream that jolts Yuuri awake.

“You’re here, at work, with a full hour to your shift,” Phichit says, hands to his face. “Who are you and what have you done to my best friend?”

“Softer, please,” Yuuri sighs, straightening from Phichit’s desk. The postmaster’s office feels crowded in with papers and files scattered across every possible surface, but it’s private, with a door that shuts out the outside world. “I didn’t get any sleep last night.”

“And yet you’re here.  _Early._ ” Phichit flings his bag to the side and pulls up a chair, its legs scraping in the most grating fashion across the wood floor. Yuuri drops his head in his arms, groaning. “What happened last night?”

“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you,” Yuuri says, voice muffled in his elbow.

“Try me,” Phichit says.

“All right, fine.” Rising up, Yuuri meets Phichit’s eyes squarely with his. “I’m engaged.”

Phichit blinks.

“To a foreigner called Viktor, with pretty hair and pretty eyes.”

“Wait—”

“Who insisted that we share a bed last night, because in his words, ‘I cannot have my future mate sleeping alone on the floor’.”

Phichit inhales. “—hold on—”

“Who, also, cuddles in his sleep, and is disturbingly well-endowed, and  _I did not get any sleep last night_.”

The last words pour out in a rush of breath, before Yuuri’s head falls again with a dull thud against the desk.

“…did you say ‘mate’?” Phichit says after a moment.

Yuuri lets out a groan in response.

“Right. Okay. So.” Phichit shifts in his seat, the chair creaking in protest. “What you’re telling me is, you’re here early because you’re avoiding your well-endowed fiancé?”

“Viktor,” Yuuri says. “His name is Viktor.” He lifts his head then, heat rising to his cheeks, embarrassed at his own actions. Engaged or not, Viktor is a guest, to his home and to this little town. His mother would not have approved. “He was still asleep when I left.”

“Well,” Phichit says. “ _Well_.”

Grabbing Yuuri by the wrist, Phichit tugs him off the chair and out the office. His strides are wide and resolute as they traverse the quiet mailroom, normally bustling with riders and sorters, bags of mail swung over their shoulders.

“Where are we going?” Yuuri says, eyes wide.

“We have an hour.” When Phichit looks back, his grin is bright and eager. “So let’s meet this new man in your life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


	58. Selkie AU P3

“Yuu~ri~”

Yuuri manages a yelp as he’s bowled over, strands of glowing silver the only glimpse he can catch before he falls. Hands press into his shoulders, warm breath gusting against his neck— _I couldn’t find you when I woke up_ —and it’s guilt that hits Yuuri first; guilt for leaving Viktor on his own, for sneaking out without a word to him.

It takes another three seconds for Yuuri to realize that the body pressed against his is very, very naked.

“Clothes,” Yuuri gasps, arms jolting off the bare skin as if burned. “Why aren’t you wearing clothes!”

Viktor pulls back, eyes wide and innocent. “Is it customary to wear clothes even among future mates?”

“It’s customary to wear clothes all the time,” Yuuri says. He wrenches his eyes shut, hands covering them for good measure. “Please put something on.”

“I, for one, think our customs can be a little too prudish,” Phichit chimes in from the side, far too brightly. “I’m Phichit, Yuuri’s best friend.”

“Oh, you left to bring a friend,” Viktor says. There’s a hint of delight in his voice that makes Yuuri feel a thousand times worse. “Hello Phichit, I’m Viktor.”

Phichit’s grin is visible even in his words. “Yuuri’s new mate, is that right?”

“Future mate,” Viktor corrects. “According to my customs, at least.”

“Well, Viktor, let’s get some clothes on you before your future mate implodes out of sheer mortification.”

As Phichit ushers Viktor into the bathroom, Yuuri finally removes his hands and stumbles over to the stove. Tea, he decides, reaching for the kettle. Tea is the best remedy in any situation, for calm nerves and a steady head. They have less than an hour, which is just enough time for Phichit to have his fill of fun, for Yuuri to figure out what to do with Viktor while he’s at work. And for each of them to have a cup of soothing jasmine tea.

“—so your coat has magical properties?”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘magic’, but if that is your equivalent, then yes – oh, Yuuri!” Viktor breaks away from his conversation with Phichit to perform a small twirl just beyond the arch of the bathroom entrance. “Is this better?”

Viktor’s smile is incandescent, but Yuuri finds himself staring at the way Viktor’s shirt clings to his chest, too short and impossibly tight, the way his pants reveal the lines and curves of his hips, his thighs, his—

“Are you wearing _my_  clothes?” Yuuri chokes out.

Phichit makes a sound that’s almost like laughter. “You can’t expect the poor guy to wear the clothes he was traveling in.”

“But he’s – he’s not – “

“We didn’t think underwear was necessary.” Phichit’s grin turns sly. “Unless you’d like him to wear yours, too?”

Yuuri opens his mouth, then shuts it, dumbstruck. The kettle chooses that moment to whistle, and Yuuri rushes to the stove. Part of him is grateful for the distraction, while the other part wants to yell at Phichit, wants to consider how it must feel to be the fabric on Viktor’s silken skin…

No, no, no.

Shaking his head, Yuuri throws open the cabinet to reach for his chipped cups.

“Is Yuuri upset with me?” Viktor says, in a whisper.

“No, he’s nervous,” Phichit whispers back, just loud enough for Yuuri to hear. (The bastard.) “He makes tea when he’s nervous.”

“I understand my sudden appearance made him nervous yesterday, but… why is he still nervous today?”

“Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

“Your tea,” Yuuri cuts in, shoving the steaming cups at the two men. The last thing he needs is for Phichit to give Viktor the wrong idea.  _Or the right one_ , his treacherous mind supplies, but he ignores it, turning back to retrieve his own cup while Viktor takes a sip.

The noise that Viktor makes has Yuuri’s fingers tighten around his cup.

“You make such good tea,” Viktor sighs.

Yuuri swallows, cheeks warming. “I’m afraid we have to leave for work soon,” he says to hide his embarrassment. “Do you have anything to do till evening?”

Viktor blinks at him, smile faltering. “You work for that long?”

“Well,” Phichit says, and Yuuri doesn’t like the playful tone in his voice, not one bit. “He could finish a lot earlier, you know—” his eyes flick to Yuuri, who opens his mouth, too late, “—with a _partner_.”

There’s a pause, then Viktor straightens, eyes sparkling as bright as the open sunlit ocean.

“May I?” he says, and Yuuri can only nod, for who is he to deny Viktor this request? Not when Viktor looks ever so pleased to be of help to someone as undeserving as  _him._

“Worst friend ever,” Yuuri mouths at Phichit, while Viktor darts to the bathroom, fussing over the state of his hair.

Phichit smirks over the edge of his cup. “You’re welcome,” he mouths in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check my tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com) for the latest ficlets. All prompt related writings/Asks can be found via the tag [#three prompts au](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/tagged/three-prompts-au). 
> 
> If you're interested, Ask me prompts from: [AU Mix it Up Challenge](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/167856745687/au-mix-it-up-challenge). 
> 
> Or, check out my other fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05/works). ^^


End file.
